She watched it start with just a spark, one sharp word, a touch of flint.
Up came a gentle tendril, nothing much to mind.
Just a tang of bitter, tasting of regret.
Nothing much, nothing much at all.
Tendrils gathered into fingers, and the wind picked up.
More now than sharp words.
The fingers became great billowing flames.
A raging fury.
She weathered it, leaning in while trees toppled.
People faded away, pushed back by the flames and smoke.
She rode through the fire on horseback.
Hooves flying, eyes full of terror.
After a ride almost endless.
Then the calm. Then, smouldering calm.
The trees will grow back.
Fire changes things.
It always changes things.
—
This post was previously published on medium.com.
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From The Good Men Project on Medium
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Photo credit: Matt Palmer on Unsplash
