November's green

the dog hesitates,
slinking low with claws spread wide
on the narrow pack bridge
high over the broad Salmon river

once on the other side, we make our way
up the side canyon where we see
a fire burned over the summer —
the woody brush is blackened and
the grass bunches are scorched to stubs

rounding a bend, I turn over in my mind
the way green and brown
must have turned to red and orange
and then to black and white

and back to green again —
for between the icy creek rushing
down its glossy, moss-lined bed and
the elk tracks in the muddy trail,
a surprising green covers the ground

growing soft as spring
under blackened trunks,
plush and inviting,
a sweet spot for a nap
on a still November afternoon

beneath and between the new shoots,
silence of stark white snail shells
vacant on the fertile, black char