Tall charcoal colored branches drape over head, like long printed expensive window curtains blocking the glow from the sun. The ashy floor of the forest is decorated with the singed leaves making patters into a guided path. The remaining green that survived the blanket of flames, slumped over turning away. Twisting along the cracked bed of the dried river vines of decaying greenery slope urning for the crisp touch of clear cool liquid to nurture them back to Heath. The clear flowing water that used to flow down this bed a vanished leaving the animals to follow or suffer the loss of nutrients.

I walked in the middle of the path crunching the leaves as the turned to dust in the breeze of the wind floating away. Touching the ashes on the bark of a old Ceader tree. I look at the black powder the left chalky residue against my skin and under my nails. My feet leaving tracks in the fine dry particles made from the dehydration of the earth.