They call them
The dog days
Of summer…
Long, hot, arid
And no
Relief from an
Empty & still
Sky.
It's when
The brain
Is fried
That stupid
Steps in,
A cigarette butt
Flies,
The ember
From the campfire
Pops just
A little
Too far
And they
Are too drunk
To notice…
Until
It's too hot
Too late…
Pine needles
Catch fire
Turns to
Pine trees
Trees quickly
Turn to an
Acre,
Till, primed
To burn
By summer's
Hot breath
They scream
“the mountain's
on fire!”
And summer's
Breath seems
Gentle
In comparison
To the Fire
Dragon's Breath
Plumes of
Black Death
Hell and damnation
On Earth
By human
Not Divine
Hands…
And after
A time
That only
Mountains
Count & knows
Charred Silent
Sentinels stand
Watch & warn
Of the hot
Dog days
Of summer
And what
Can happen
When vigilance
Looks away
A new
Fire Mountain
Is born.
