The wind carries embers,
whispers charred secrets,
and the tree bends—not from age,
but from a scream that’s always been there.
Do you hear it now?
A hollow cry in the brittle leaves,
a crack in the marrow of the bark,
the language of wildfire—
cruel, ancient, endless.

Once,
her roots were drunk on fog,
her branches heavy with sunlit mornings.
Now,
the air tastes of smoke,
ash settles in her veins,
her shadow flickers,
a ghost against an orange sky.

They say the fire speaks—
greedy, ravenous.
But the tree,
the Cali tree,
screams instead.
Screams for her sisters who turned to smoke,
screams for the nests that fell as sparks,
screams for the soil, now burned and bare,
too tired to cradle new life.

Once,
flames were a dance:
brief, beautiful,
a way to start anew.
But now they are monsters,
growing hungrier,
louder,
every year.

The scream spirals into the valleys,
up the hills,
over the rooftops.
It cracks open the silence of dry creek beds,
splits the night sky,
and still, we pretend we do not hear.

She leans toward the wind and wails:
“Do you know why?”

The answer is in the sparks of powerlines,
the parched rivers,
the forests gone brittle with thirst.
It is in the blackened skeletons of redwoods,
the sunsets stained with sorrow.

One day,
her scream will fade—
too quiet to hear,
too heavy to carry.
But for now,
she stands in the ash,
her roots smoldering,
her branches trembling.

And I listen.