Scruffy looking if you can call it a tree line.
Little gnarly oaks that only grow
where the ground is burned
every other year, or so. Or sew
spanish moss like tassels off
proud bowing tree limbs. Or sew on
button nosed pine cones pitted in pockets
of so much sand.
Like fleas if you let them get bad.
Like trees after too many fires,
and how they come back.
More and smaller and shorter and scruffy.
Looking hungry. Staring out hard in that devout
rooted if you can call it an eye line.
Terrified for seasons to change.
Fire means different things,
when you can not run away.