The trees are down,
Dying cedars, no great loss,
Condemned to the wood stove,
Useful only as heat.

We cut slash, drag it out
Buck logs into rounds,
Leave a tidy grove,
Much like floods push out the weak and recede.

When the parched field drinks first rains
We light the piles and watch them burn.
Green boughs complain loudest,
Snapping and spitting sparks
That die in the damp grass.
Then we leave, letting night consume the cinders.