I call the hilltop that I took these pictures from The Tree Cemetary. Once upon a time it was a thick, lush green slope that was a favorite bedding spot for deer and elk. I'm not sure if it was lightning or artillery fired during a military training exercise that set the hill on fire, but it burned to the ground and years later the charred and bleached skeletons still beckon eerily towards the sky.
One can't help but walk in silence through the pinons and junipers. The only thing growing are weeds on the ground. New trees and brush dare not cross the invisible line onto the scarred earth, stopping right on the edge to pay their silent homage. Even the animals avoid this area. I spent almost an hour there on the ridge and the only creatures that ventured near were crows. I couldn't help but notice that other burned areas have long since regrown, but this particular hill remains a scorched ruin. I could almost swear that I heard the soft, mournful sigh of a hundred trees as they reached for the wind that blew gently through their bare branches.
Edited 11/02/05: Sorry but all the typos were really bugging me.