There is a scar upon the land, ugly and black. The dead fingers of incinerated trees point accusingly at the sky as if accusing the heavens themselves of some dark and unspeakable crime. The smell of their burnt trunks lies heaving in the air, a reminder of the enormity of what has happened here. But soon new shoots of green will spike up through the ash, and the animals will return. Death will turn to life, as sure as winter turns to spring.
