Out of the Ashes
Oil on Wood
Before we came along, our 55 acres in Sonoma were home to wildlife and occasional hunting parties. This month's fires burned all the trees and brush and grasses revealing what was left behind by the revelers of old; a batch of rusted out old beer cans (not pop top cans, but ones opened with church keys) and this small glass, completely intact, caked with dirt and black ash. I'm imagining it filled with whiskey sipped under a starlit sky under the old oaks on the hill in the middle of our meadow. I think I will keep it as a reminder of survival, and time, and the meaning contained in a simple object.
Perhaps one day I will fill it with Sonoma wine and toast our first night back on the land.