Only the enormity of numbers remains:
251 square miles burned; Ted 47; Arnie 35.
Twenty years ago you showed me these mountains.

We lay naked on rugged terrain. The snow piled high
melted under our heat. Your charcoal-colored hair
stretched out like a fan. Except for the distant scythe

of flame, there is no echo in the mountain air.
The puma’s numbers already depressed,
have shrunk again. Manzanita has not been spared,

or broom, or yucca’s white flowers along the Crest.
The morning perfume of chaparral has evaporated,
and sycamores that straddled the rivulets

are charred. Their golden leaf stars once drifted
downstream. On rock-seats, we balanced food and passion.
Later, I took pictures while you cavorted

with game hens in a sudden snow, your shirt undone
in the cold that stings your being now.
Boulders on the slopes barely cling to erosion.

The coyote forgets its natural ways. It prowls
with the wind through king palm and elm
where the moon sings between backyard boughs.

The woodpecker taps ragas in a higher realm.
When alder and pine become pillars again,
will we know? The enormity of loss overwhelms.