Fire in the Okanagan

I have returned to you again land, the hill where I grew up—the place my family has lived as settlers for four generations, the traditional unsurrendered territory of the Syilx Nation. There was a fire here just a few weeks ago. My parents packed their bags and travel trailer and the police were waiting at the end of the road. But the helicopters came and managed to put out the fire. No one was evacuated this time.
The smoke is thick in the valley today, as it has been for weeks. I wear a respirator mask. It's hard to breathe otherwise. Red tail hawks call for each other in the distance, as ash hangs in the air and settles on the ground. I hear the sound of fire-dried aspen leaves blowing in the breeze, still attached to the trees. A different sound than I've heard ever before.
Unexpressed grief sits heavy in me. The land has often been a companion, a place of ease and comfort, of bonding, of remembering myself among kin. Yet these days when I’m on the land, I am often tense, my eyes burn, and my lungs are sore. I often stay indoors, fear growing like hot wildfire.
Yet, on this quiet morning, rather than hearing about the fires and thinking about them, letting the terror fester from a distance, I walk toward you land. I am with you in your company and with your stories, rolling hills whom I love. As I ascend, I find the place where the fire spread, charred the land, place still full of life. I reach the Douglas fir whom I sat with last year in the cold winter among snow and large stones. I stay here for a while, settling in and finding comfort in your company. I send my prayers to you, sing songs, and give you water. I sing—I send my love over the creeks and lakes, I send my love over the hills, I send my love into the smoky skies, and my love returns to you.
As I sing, chickadees come close. They seem curious. They enjoy eating the seeds of the Douglas fir cones. Douglas fir, your bark and lower limbs—burnt, blackened. And you're still here. Your crown is green despite the smoke, fire, drought and hardship. The chickadees begin to sing and we sing together. A chipmunk approaches, curious, comes right up to my foot, and then scurries away. I weep—grief and praise, gratitude, love. Amidst the ash and charred trees, there is still life. I don't feel so alone. I am comforted by your company. I grieve and cry and let this place know my love, my commitment—to caring for the land, to living in a good way—in service to life, in honor of past, present, and future generations.