On day three I wrote and sent a bit of prose describing what the homestead destroyed by the fire meant to me, represented in this tune's next section ending at time marker -02:20 the prose went like this:

The heavy steel frame of the house, hand-assembled and stout, rose from the thick, hand-smoothed slab carefully laid on clean earth—an unnatural extension of the Sangre de Cristo foothills. I fretted at first that it was too civilized to be there. The house shell completed weeks later, twenty-two years of felling and hauling trees, milling timbers, coaxing water from the mountain's stony heart, sunlight and wind converted into power for lights and tools; all while learning the slow, deliberate rhythm of high country seasons which steadily convinced me it wasn’t too civilized, but well constructed and frugally powered with Sun and Wind, barely causing a hum with its presence yet strong enough to withstand heavy snows and winds. Upper Morphy Canyon became my patient, loving mentor, its silence a language I learned to hear, listen intently to and ultimately understand; its harsh winters a test of resilience, springtime bringing glorious tension release, its swift summers a riot of wildflower colors and fragrances against the deep green of pine, oak, maple, willow and fir, and it’s autumns quiet, calming time for harvests of delectables and deep reflections. I became a wilderness dweller, not forcibly, but by slow, certain osmosis, my skin tanning the color of weathered bark, my hands growing calloused and strong, lungs breathing deeper and greater breaths, sense becoming attuned, and my spirit entwining with the very roots of the ancient trees I harvested for multiuse.
 

The canyon breathed within me. I learned to know the precise moment the first snow would dust peaks, the exact call of the raven as it wheeled above the valley, the subtle shift in the wind that foretold a coming storm. I was thrilled by sudden storms of intensities never before endured. I thrived in that thin, crisp air, my lungs expanding with every breath, my senses sharpened by the clarity of such high altitude. I was a part of the place, and the place was a part of me. My life was a tapestry woven with the threads of the mountain's seasons, and contentment swelled within every flexing fiber and pulsing neural pathway within. Deepening, abiding happiness frequently caused unexpected bursts of joyous laughter.
 

Then came the fire. A roaring, consuming beast started by nincompoops. The preventable catastrophe ripped through the canyon, leaving behind a blackened scar where my life, my home, my very being had been. The flames didn't just destroy the homestead; they incinerated a way of life, a connection to the earth that ran deeper than bone and marrow and thought cycles. I was forced down, driven from high altitude to lowlands where the air hangs thick and heavy, saturated with acrid stench of industry and the ceaseless drone of traffic roaring across land and sky. The cacophony of it all assaults my ears, a jarring contrast to the whispering pines and the musically bubbling streams of the high canyon. I am a displaced person, a refugee in my own land, sickened by it all.
 

And then, insult to injury: FEMA. Promises insistently whispered like the rustling of fallen leaves, turning to dust in the face of bureaucratic indifference. Forms filled out, applications repeatedly submitted and routinely altered to fit bureaucracy’s needs rather than mine, hope flickering and dying with passing weeks turned to months turned to years. They speak of assistance, of rebuilding, but their words are empty, echoing in the void left by the fire. Their inaction is a slow, agonizing torture, a constant reminder of what I've lost, a barrier between me and the possibility of ever returning, of ever healing to again experience contentment in high country. They hold out a twitchy hand, only to snatch it away, lying and conniving to cover their ineptitudes and resentment for victims, prolonging the agony of this exile, this forced severance from the highlands that berthed me without grudge. The USFS took my home, now FEMA is stealing my hope. I am adrift, a wilderness dweller trapped in a place I cannot belong in contentment, yearning for the silence of the high place, the clean air, the whispering pines, the life that was, and the life that might never be again.