The Spring was wet,
enough that the trees still look alive above the yellow grass,
their roots searching out hidden wells to keep from losing too many leaves.
In their shade the heat has baked the ground into a bad ceramic,
the glaze already chipped and cracked in this overheated kiln.
Camouflaged by brittle stalks the sacrifices go unnoticed,
dust to dust, ashes to ashes, the trees can only stand so long.