Black and Green, by Brandon Haut

A

careless

spark

Inflames the

dry

Bed of needles.

They snap, warp, curl, creak,

And the flames

lick the trunks

of the spruce.

Its ravenous fingers claw and grasp

The bark,

the branch,

the life.

Twist and shatter, crash and grow,

And the flames

spread their virus

to its neighbors.

All that was green has now turned to black—all that was seen is grey.

The orange overpowers

the day and the night;

It’s rampant and fervent at play.

All the men fly their planes,

creatures scatter below;

They fight,

they sweat,

they bow.

The wilderness roars at its own leisure pace and concludes with a smoldering hush.

All the forest is numb

from the charring event.

The once-noble forest is crushed.

Heaps

of ash

And carbon

shards

Are crying streams of smoke.

The scar

on the land

is a hideous sight:

A haunting graveyard scene.

But the rain—ah, the rain—and the sun—oh, the sun—mix a wond’rous concoction of time;

The seeds that fell down in the fiery blaze have been nourished in cracks underground.

How they struggle to breathe and break earth overhead; but they push, they strive, they grow.

And a towering pine reemerges alive as a miniscule model of life.

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