Sitting atop a hill,

(Leaning rather)

A former tree,

A former flora,

Fallen all by itself.

Roots no longer intact.

Roots never quite exact.

Separated and picked to  bits of nothing by

By-standing birds,

Who had just come from a long day of

Sitting in cautious rows,

Upon  subtle wires,

Like a dozen magicians.

Casting a dozen spells.

Upon the heads of so many,

So that these purveyors of  so many different  surveys,

That all  seem to do different  tired jobs,

At various, tired volumes.

Whose only  reprieve is achieved when temporarily resting

Under the shadow of the  petrified overpass.

But only for a moment,

Because

These monoliths are often at an impasse, themselves.

They spend so much time soliciting  flyers under these

 Radioactive skies,

And hiding from various vultures who haunt those same

Radioactive skies.

Now with this blessing,

From the  stale roots of this disembarked   tree,

They mayjust  have the slightest chance at

Withstanding the  everyday onslaught of fungus

And the ferocity of a flat tire,

And the  calculating verbosity of telekinetic telemarketers.

While still being able to exist in their favored  state of perpetual fragility.

All this expiration,

All this mediation.

From a fallen tree,

For a fallen tree.

That is already

And easily will

Be so much more,

Than a tree.

Than firewood.

The story of the uprooting,

The uprising,

And subsequent displacement,

Of this adult splinter,

Disjointed from the earth

With no help from the jagged jaws

  Of the serrated saws,

That swiftly travel through forests,

Hungry for timber,

Vehemently separating limb from life.

Leaving only leaves in its wake,

But still providing four sturdy legs,

For a future chair.

And after deforestation,

They bounce about the textured dreams of the woodsmen that wield them,

Like recently forged swords,

Like lost  musical notes,

  Reluctantly narrating kaleidoscope cartoons.

This is the origin of firewood.

This is the birth of a glow.

This fallen tree,

Once a  literal thorn in the side of a mountain,

Now a drop in a bucket.

(A bucket that stands behind the crowd, awaiting instruction)

The tree

Is tossed onto some expensive blanket of  charcoal,

With some uncomfortable  newspaper clippings,

Who are undeserving of this same fate,

&

Surrounded by glossy expensive stones,

Stacked high enough

&

Painted brightly  enough

To sustain  general fireside aesthetics.

And quiet the fireside critics.

With immolation now moments away,

This  previous tree has now become an offering,

Like the deceased village witch.

And like the martyred witch,

The eventual firewood will live on forever

Dancing well into the night,

Finally departing

In splendid ribbons of smoke,

Gradually graduating to

Inevitable cloud status,

Forgoing both posture

&

Pasture

For a life of thunderstorms.

For a causal life.

For a casual life.

While candidly watching absolutely  everything,

Almost everything.

Almost sleepwalking through the sky,

In  a trance.

A trance so requisite,

A trance so exquisite,

It borders on obsolete.