Wildfire rips through the crest, whipped by a hot and dusty wind. The chaparral that covers these hills burns too quickly. Immediately it is reduced to ash and the flames rush across the next mile, the next acre, the next fire station. The buildings there are reduced to beams and melted metal and then, forgotten.
Nature operates in the extreme. There is power and volatility in the fire that levels acres but there is power, too, in the buds that sprout through the ash. Always, the forest will begin again.
The quiet strength. The spike behind the rose. The unapologetic nature of the season.