Light steams through my window, falling harshly on my face; nature's own alarm clock. I stretch, yawn, and squint my eyes as I glare into the brightness.
The sun is cresting the hills and mountains at the edge of town, a mimicry of what happened only a few years past. Those mountains, those hills, were bathed in flame, awash in light at all hours of the day.
Now, only the burning of the sun alights them; pillars of charcoal and stubby infant trees living alongside each other, a testament to the will of this place. Trees loom tall, mountains sit majestically, neither bowing to the power of flame.
And that is how each morning begins, light sparking atop the recovering mountains, then falling back on the same scene at days end, albeit on the other side of town.