Along Echo Ridge 
the wind sung 

and we kept 
hearing voices

unsure if it was
a trick of acoustics

or our subconscious
trying to compensate

for the remoteness
of the space.  

Last year’s fires 
mostly burnt 

the underbrush
we came across 

its path now and then 
but in the cradle 

of down, scorched
branches, nascent

lupine grows, 
nature also fond

of filling voids.
It’s carelessness

or lightning that 
starts them off 

and from Purte’s 
View we can see

a tree, taller 
than the rest,

set apart, 
a blackened 

skeleton as
a result.

I haven’t heard 
your voice in

over a week
but feel you might

have found this
tree unwise.

I would remind
you that shyness

itself is a type
of pride;

don’t you dare
hide behind it.