How trees grew upon such a solid rock face I do not know. They did. The swath of snow with thin barely visible toothpicks is where the fire danced down the mountain. The faint toothpicks are the charred trees. How it danced through the trees, like Moses parting the red sea, I do not know. It did. Triumph and defeat? I don’t think so. Perhaps the whisper is, it simply did, it simply is. And that is the simple awe and mystery that holds my gaze and heart.