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April 5 Into the Woods

The ponderosa pines lift their brush burned skirts
revealing the scrubby land, nothing left to char.
Their lofty green limbs wave
the scars below belong to another being,
miraculous in each others disregard

 

Somewhere near that forest of half burned pines
Somewhere a bug might be confused on its path
The burrowing insects seeking soft wood,
wonder at the species change that altered tang of branch,
are disinclined to taste a scorched repast

 

The living things are mostly left in hibernation
But here and there an insect skips and scuffs its way
our beaming headlight illustrates the ghostly wing
while on the pond a few lone geese cry out,
beneath the eddies pool the trout in silent sway.

 

So we are apt to linger, looking closely at the green
Spring comes this way unbidden, barely seen.

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