Copper pods are dying. Loggers need not be impatient with the trees to cut them or burn on a funeral pyre.
Veins of brown like garlands embracing necks ran through their green canopy. No, it wasn't flowers but leaves and small branches shriveled, discolored and decayed. Death in patches looking golden from a distance.
Some were bare, burnt out, skeletal black their spidery arms outstretched against a grey sky. Eager to devour the clouds they looked like witches in a trance.
There is a chance the earth below may become moist and the sky may bring rains. The sections of death in bits and pieces may live again.
Even if they don't they deserve to be left alone in their death. They never needed a cremation to seal their end.