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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.

There is a calmness in the evenings that seem to bind the land to the creatures that walk upon it. As the sun lowers its glowing mane of light behind distant peaks and valleys, we set aside the cares of the day. We’ll worry again tomorrow, but for the moment it’s simply good enough to watch as a horse or cow noses its way through the grass. Soon it will be dark, and then the Earth and the animals upon it will sleep, but for now, the pasture is our stage, and all of us, bovine, equine, or human, are content to play our part.

• Allan Lacoste

Prometheus brought us the gift of fire, but what was fire if not the beating heart of the gods? It is the crimson flame that drives us forward. It is the destroyer that brings life. Forests die not because of fire, but because we prevent fires where they should by all rights occur. Nature relies on the cycle of destruction and rebirth and has since time beyond thought. But fire must be controlled, and therein lies the dichotomy.