In Which Destruction Looms Complete

My love for beetles may not quite exceed
The love of Haldane's god for them, but might
Were they not also party to a deed
That haunts me with ill dreams in darkest night:
My fav'rite place on earth is dying fast.
Unlogged, unburnt (that part's our fault), it serves
Now as a beetle banquet. In the past
The trees stood green and tall, now -- this unnerves
Me vastly; red and dead, awaiting fire,
E'en as the barkies thrive, twig beetles join
The party. They'll kill off the rest entire;
Then fire will finish. We have now no coin
With which to bargain. Ah, my Snowy Range.
We have destroyed what we tried not to change.

In Which I Rant Not A Little About Wildfires And A Six-Legged Cause Thereof, Even Though I Dig Insects As A Whole

I feel for Santa Barb'ra as the fire,
It edges closer with the worst intent
(If fire may have intent, this one's is dire).
Someday that will be me and mine. Ill-spent
Has been the time and resources to fight
Dendroctonus - the pine beetle, whose spread
Across the Med Bow Forest came to light
When I was just a sprat. Now trees are dead
And ready to catch fire, and when they do
Encampment and my Saratoga both,
Baggs too and all the little spots are through.
The timber industry, whose normal growth
And work could have prevented this outcome
Were killed off long before. It's beyond dumb.