They tramp into the forest, cutting through the early morning mist. At the front of the column is a silver-haired figure, slight of stature, clad in frayed denim. He walks briskly and the others scramble to match his pace.
At each side strides a helmeted man, wearing orange chaps and heavy leather gloves. One carries a chain saw, the other a brush cutter with silver blade that glistens when a shaft of sun reaches it.
Behind comes a legion of haulers, with cutting tools tucked under their arms or dangling from their hands. To a man (and woman), their clothing is marred by burn holes and rips.
They stop at a clearing and the silver-haired one dashes from tree to tree, a can of paint in his hand. Some trees receive a brief blaze of color from the can – these are the unfortunate ones, those not to stand for long. Others are spared.
Some of the haulers drop to their knees, filling their hands with dried twigs, dead branches, and clumps of grass. They move silently to a central location and deposit the detritus of the forest floor onto a quickly-forming pile.
Soon, the early morning calm will be shattered by the roar of small gasoline engines. Soon, the pile of twigs will be a wild blaze, sending fingers of flame as high as the forest canopy. The haulers will return again and again, casting armloads of brush onto the pyre and gazing skyward as their offerings are consumed. Their mumbled incantations go unheard in the din.
Later, the silver-haired one raises his arms over his head and gathers all present into a circle. He passes cups filled with a reddish liquid to each of them. Unquestioning, they lift the cups to their lips and drink.
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