The rain in the woods where the fire erupted

months ago is abundance too soon, or too late,

the blaze causing harm long after.

The promise is fulfilled,

but not mercifully, the watercourses

deepening underfoot, charcoal and slurry and soil.

The water has no color. It is the empty place

before the first word. When the downpour stops

the body balances, stone by stone.

Whatever the deer want

it is not here in the blanched eucalyptus,

the carbon dirt. There is fire,

and the other fire, a season of bad silence.

But each dawn is the first morning,

the names of the animals

before the animals themselves,

and then afterward the first afternoon,

a surprise, the stubborn

new grass among the ash leaves.