finding almost nothing for fuel
the low brush burst quickly into flame
the wind threw sparks and tinder
a little farther along
brush turned to ash
almost as quickly as it lit
grey powder covered the ground
as before, flame had
and before that, the dried brush
the edge of flame ran up against the rock
and, finding nothing to burn there, stopped
night fell on ash
breeze sifted it back and forth
but found no embers to re-ignite
no kindling and no spark
a poet watching from a tower wondered
would civilization end that way?
run out of fuel and spark?
leave only ashes sifting in the wind?
he shuddered and shook his head
surely not, he told himself, surely not
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