There’s a stripe down the mountain where the trees still grow
The brown shoulders of the mountainside, deep and rich like melanined skin
cup the yellow and green.
The scorching heat of the fire made black of it all
save this thin whisper of a time before the drought ate us up,
Bite after bite, tree after tree.
The skeletons stand, shadowy and sparse, faint figures in the wind that
forces color into the life of the valley.