pine, oak and others stand still clutching their dead leaves to their branches as the dwarfed grasses turn a little more tender in response to a rain. though death encroaches within my microforest, it is at a slower rate than what is scattered about as I stroll. i have lost more since the chains saws fell the last dozen. I leave them standing at this moment and wonder about to dos. again I worry with my lines, not for temporary losses that would ensue, but for fear of the cascading sparks that would dance sizzling to the dry floor.
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