Grief is not exactly the same as desolation: is not the stretch of space throughout a landscape that goes on and on as if without end. Though we understand not every blank bristles with the resounding echoes of silence, there is also that hammock of bare light that swings between a door and the space before or beyond it. Perhaps it's no longer possible to make an accounting of how we survive our days, even as winds in the west whip up fire with a frenzy water can't put out. If that heat never wished to speak to the earth again, perhaps what's scorched might have a chance to survive.