I thought

Jane Dougherty Writes

I thought it was mist,

rising from the river,

creeping up the hill and rearing

in dragon coils against the dull sky.

I thought it was the setting moon,

glaring bloody red

through the leafless trees.

I thought it was the crackle of dead leaves,

beneath the hooves of startled deer,

but now I smell the fear,

taste the smoke and fire,

hear the laughter of the flames—

the world is burning.

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