by Bri Watts

It almost seemed like they were
standing in peaceful protest:
bare, interminable, still,
between white packed snow
and the faint color of black
mountains and mostly blue sky,
a sigh of red; expecting to be set
on fire – with ease as eucalyptus
trees are adapted to survive, thrive,
in heat, in hate – and I wonder
if the fire ever gets tired
of mauling the unyielding.