After the Woolsey fire, Malibu

The oak stood alone     on a high hill, branched silhouette 
set against summer sky,     our marker of miles in the meadow,
its deep green eminence      aglow in golden grasses,
a strong speaker of place     replaced with empty space,
fallen, lying blasted     and blackened, broken brutally,
a last bellow of loss      —a cracking scream—captured
in horror, a hollow maw     gaping aghast, its great
heartwood consumed so swiftly     some leaves were merely singed;	
high branches now lie shifting     amid grasses green with forgetting
searing flames that scorched stone,     the lingering coal-glow 
releasing its ancient incense     to float where finches now flit—
Now an old form broken,     a magnificent remnant, monument
to all lost and lovely things,     and in its agony, an augury.