She tossed the kindling:
twigs, dried leaves, and an old piece
of tattered fabric,
at the base of the bridge.
The wind whipped her lace dress,
as lightning flashed,
and she gave a secretive grin
before the thunder raged at the night.
She hummed something;
not quite a song,
but not not a song either
while she longed to laugh
like the people in a painting
or cry like a widow on the news.
The flames danced gracefully
under the angry sky,
and she danced too;
small feral motions,
and twirls,
as the structure smoked,
and more dancing,
always dancing...
until the lovely ruins smoldered,
and all that she was left with
was a faded memory
of what the smoke
must have smelled like.
re-work of Small Feral Motions