The birch, the oak, the pine
Brought down from their stately vantage,
no longer tall, no longer prime.
It’s no One's fault.
So who's to blame?
The birds screech and the deer flee.
The cottontail is dirty gray
From smoke and ash and dust.
The skyline is no more,
The mountains lie beyond the haze.
The field is near, I see only near.
I blink – a raindrop?
Merely a wet lash
From breathes so hard to take,
And sadness deep, for the loss
Of land and life and memories
Of beauty wide and spirits high.
The willow weeps and so do I.