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Black ghosts at attention, slender and straight
Waiting silently in the chilly air.
At their feet, scorched seeds, their children
Pausing before suddenly being born
To life, to mortality.
Created by electric white light
The fire came quickly, crackling, yellow and orange.
Noisy, it roared across the ridges and up into the snow-capped mountains
Pushed by the wind - animated by the brown dried-out fuel of the forest
Striking down and across into the dehydrated spruce trees
Watching and waiting so patiently for the green growth
Denied them by the permafrost.
Like desperate hands their roots plunge deep and wide
Searching for moisture and sustenance.
Black ghosts at attention
Do not despair.
Your time will come again.
During the long, pale-yellow days of an Alaskan summer
Evolving so quickly into black, icy nights
Where northern lights frolic overhead
Heralding the passage of Alaskan eons.
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Got a Buck? 
