The forest is on fire. We don’t care.
Some care. Those with forest houses care.
Most don’t, think they care, they must,
who wouldn’t, the beauty,
the deer, owls in the trees,
brown bears lumbering along moss paths.
Fish smile in streams.
They laugh all wet and smug.
Smoke and flame are not their problem.
The words dry and drought have not yet
required space in their moist vocabulary.
They do not notice the ash on the surface.