Yesterday, as the smoke 
rode a river of wind
 from the north,
       the burning
                     of Ontario
  carbon black
poured into our valley.
   Thoughts turned to 
 breathy prayers;
 take these tears
please deliver 
to thirsty needles
 what is and will be. 
The giants of the Boreal
  In their death, sustenance,
altered carbon
for these trees 
smaller than porcelain
 dolls which
 sit on and in mounds 
 of turned clay. 
This morning
 in soaking fog
thick with chains
of carbon
I do not believe
but know;
nothing can be created 
 or destroyed here.