The Whisper of the Trees

I lay on the rocky ground of a trail in the woods,

Looking up at the blue sky with the birds dancing gracefully above the clouds.

I feel the rays of the sun against my now tan skin, the wind blowing through my hair like a whisper of a song.

The whisper turns to a sad hum, a chorus of blues being sung by the trees.

Listen to my story, the tale of my world.

I close my eyes to see a field of black ash, the beauty of bark and leaves turned to dust in a moment.

With wishful thinking, I furrow my brow, trying to turn the vision bright.

I want to see the trees flourish, not charred to the root.

Instead I see dried leaves and frail branches hanging, from years of drought, years without a drop of water.

The hum of the wind turns into a wail of despair, the trees begging for help.

Help us, save us, hear our plea.

Save the trees.