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1,000 acres is a measurement. The ravages of fire are heart stoppingly stark: rolling hills naked, a lone coyote picking his way through mounds of mud, a crow perched on a branch as black as him, pebbles and grasses sprayed phosphate-pink to save them, Phos-Chek boundary lines where firemen held the line against spreading fires - no measurement touches you the way witnessing nature raw, stripped of her beauty does. |
But the oaks, ravaged and wounded, survivors of drought after drought, some will not make it back.
Time will heal as best it can.
To the way it was. Close, but not the same.