This story is for foresters,
A strange society,
Who sometimes see the need to burn
The ground beneath their trees.

The reason for this practice is
Often by scientists seen,
Who’ll tell you that sometimes a fire
Is part of nature’s scheme.

You ever note how when a fire
Has crept across the land,
With one good rain and ten warm days
The ground is green again?

That fire was used to clean the duff
Collected down below.
The elements left in that ash,
Soon help the earth to grow.

Wild creatures there both large and small
All quickly do return
To feast upon this tender browse
Left by a gentle burn.

But wildlife feed is not just why
You burn beneath the trees,
It’s mostly done to clean out fuel
— Avoid catastrophes.

Your trees have grown for many years,
They’re stately and they’re tall
But down below, the brush grew too
And made a prickly wall.

The needles that your trees have shed
Along with chunks of bark,
Have lodged down there in vines and brush
Just waiting for a spark.

And one fine day when it is dry,
A weather front comes in,
Sends dust clouds racing ‘cross the fields
Before the howling wind.

Then on that day right near your trees,
A young man drives his truck.
He’s ‘bout smoked down his cigarette
So pitches out the butt.

The spark it gracefully descends
Down to the grass below.
The cigarette soon breathes the wind,
The ash it starts to glow.

The blaze right then is very small,
It’s timid just at first,
But when it sees your trees and brush
It flares up with a burst.

The brush and vines that have grown thick
Will feed the blaze quite well
Until it is a tree tall fire,
An inferno from Hell.

It roars and groans and pops and cracks,
Creates an atmosphere,
Of wind and whirling, burning sparks,
Consuming all that’s near.

And when the raging beast is past,
The silence is profound,
For death and rocks and wisps of smoke
Will seldom make a sound.

Next day when walking on your land
Which once grew tall and graceful trees
The only things your eyes see now
Are snags which smolder in the breeze.

If only you had burned that ground
When moisture heat and wind were right,
You’d not now see this sterile scene
Of smoking spires against the light.

A burn controlled is man’s attempt
To mimic nature’s plan,
Except to choose the day that’s right
To gently heat the land.

So when you see the foresters
String drops of fire near brush that’s dense,
Know well that they do burn for all
To clear a line for self defense.

Forgive the vagrant sheets of smoke
That may obscure the scene,
For this must be the price we pay
To keep our forests green.

A fire is just a basic tool
You use with caution now and then
For in the long life of a tree
It’s not just if a wild fire comes
But rather— it is when...

Walter Stephens owns Rancho San Antonio, Inc. in Tifton, Ga. He is a member of the Georgia Forestry Association. 

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