Šuma u požaru

Gin Getz

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after the fire

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Ashes to ashes. 

Now they are laid to rest.  We watched them die their slow death. Screaming, unheard.  Which, I ask you, is a sadder time?  Witnessing then the swelling fatality or now the inevitable funeral? 

Grief.  When shall be the time of mourning?  And how shall the mountains heal? 

Two days ago I find a squirrel in the toilet of one of our vacant guest cabins.  Bob lifts him out by the little scruff of his soggy neck and we are pretty sure we are too late.  He is barely breathing.  I tap his bony back to see if he’ll cough up water.  He appears lifeless in my hands, cold and wet and limp. I hold him against me, and walk out into the sun. I sit there with the little guy to my chest until he starts to shiver.  I think that is a good sign. …

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