Somewhere,
the where of some forest
into which
I have yet
to enter,
trees slowly burn
to charcoal.
Black
smudges the interior
of clouds.
The results of which
are peaks of stormy gray.
I am distant from these mountains,
but my lungs-
accustomed to air
heavy only with humidity-
strain.
The haze over the sun
builds thick
like bricks;
no one has shelter.
It’s later now,
and from the Southerly winds,
the smell of pine and dogwood
cloak the night.
It’s cloudless
and starless-
a phenomenon
not at all
an indicator of rain boots and umbrellas.
Tomorrow,
flurries of flip-flops
will flick up
a trillion descendants
of one instantaneous spark.
Loud children
will disrupt
the ashen coating,
but so too
shall gravity
dismantle their medieval castles
and uncanvased sketches
that decorate
the sidewalk.
Cumbersome,
each party is
to the other.
Fascination and amusement
trail alongside
all disaster.
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