Charcoal Horizons

The forest never knows

which spark will earn a name.

Most begin as whispers,

a dry branch sighing,

a careless ember

mistaken for warmth.

Then the wind decides

what is worth keeping.

Hillsides surrender

one tree at a time,

until the horizon

learns the color of absence.

When morning returns,

nothing is loud anymore.

The birds trade their songs

for empty sky.

The rivers carry ash

like they are trying

to remember snow.

Strangely,

the fire never stays.

It devours,

it leaves,

and the earth is asked

to explain the ruin

to every season that follows.

People speak of regrowth,

of stubborn green pushing

through blackened soil.

They never mention

how the roots still recognize

the shape of what once stood above them.

Or how, long after the smoke has gone,

the forest still waits

for footsteps

that burned with everything else.