Right There’s Another One

Despite how they burn,
How you cut them down,
It’s often the trees
That are left to see
Of what used to be.

In a city park,
On a dry mesa,
Everywhere that’s not
All water or sand
Or nothing but grass,

You can simply glance
Around you to see,
Okay, there’s a tree.
It may not be much.
But it isn’t rare.

Most of the rest’s lost.
Wild animals hide.
Lights wash out your nights.
Life’s quiet has gone.
The trees carry on.