Under Colorado-blue skies
(Crayola should name a crayon
"Colorado Blue" after these kinds
of skies),
Buddha, the dog, and I
went to Clear Creek
to do our walking
meditation
the slow kind of wandering
a 13-year-old dog
likes.

We passed no one.
I soon realized why
Path closed, due to downed
trees. Dangerous.



I forgot
about the winds
and hail,
three months ago,
that uprooted grandfather trees,
that splintered windows
and filled houses with inches
of white ice,
that shredded tomatoes and
zucchinis and sunflowers,



that defied all attempts to
control nature, bringing
down trees and their protective
beaver-resistant
fence-dresses




This was truly
ground zero
that late July night.
Today the chain saws
and shredders
moaned.

First the hail and winds,
then the machines,
until we forget that
there used to be
acres of trees here.





Amidst the piles of dead
tree parts
an artist put brush to
canvas,




creating a soft,
graceful ballet
of fall colors.

While I explored
the raw and
broken.