The river in green and glassy garb exhales mist so coolly opposite to fire's cloudy breath Young mister three climbs the gate threatening to hurtle down the hill beyond. But he pauses on a rumble; that cough, that roar, it's the voice of big machinery. He points "a bulldozer!" And there it is - a yellow blob just above the riparian zone marking a gap between last summer's purple scars; those ribs of foliage-free hillside. My small friend is transfixed by the power - even at this distance - threats of escape forgotten so I lift him down and take his hand. "Let's catch up with grandpa," I murmur. "you can tell him about the bulldozer." I ache for the new wound which I know will be there tomorrow as gaping as a flame's blue mouth but never once as beautiful.