After the embers and coals,
the forest resumes —
soft hoof on a twig, a breath of loons,
the looming lure of owls
calling mice to the talon —
the rush and the snag,
the crossing over.
A river crumbles.
Damp musk and ash cling
to our blind skin,
and our ears, our ears turn
to each black taunt just
beyond the clearing,
our frailty deep in the lungs
of the mountainside.
Image: Casey Horner on Unsplash
Sweet and Bitter Greens 
Devon, exceptional meter and flow to this finely penned poem… I especially like:
Damp musk and ash cling to our blind skin, and our ears, our ears turn to each black taunt just beyond the clearing, our frailty deep in the lungs of the mountainside.
Your brilliance shines, my friend.
Thank you Lance. You caught me in the middle of a Monday morning edit. I think I’ll end the piece on the cited stanza, the rest, a bit of overkill.
D
It is always an esteemed pleasure, Devon. Minor edits are a good thing. Best wishes, Lance.
You too, my friend.
D
Thank you, Devon!
Beautiful