 I was driving up to Eugene with my mom and we drove through some part of where you could see the fires and all that remained were the the foundations of the trees. This is called this burnt land. The land is the body. The trees are at skeleton. This land is covered in bare bones, black and brown and burnt. They stand and do not fall. The light plays with the space between their brittle branches. Like homes a spark away from fallen block and a moment away from fire. The rooted ash and bases look like they're dancing under the fierce blazing sun. A graveyard with all of the body standing. Cars like ours drive by meanwhile other burning lives are surrounded by hearth and sound then concrete and cell silence. Burnt, bunted or broken. The body of rebel lies beneath holding everything. I'm grateful for this space and for this opportunity you think you can check.