a thousand crickets
are chirping
the air in these woods
warm dry perfect
the terra-cotta sun
setting behind
the path ahead
growing smaller
smaller
what little light
stolen every moment
"We must get going"
i say to myself
and the muse that followed
my fire our light
flickering sight
we cut a path
through the woods
why when where
were not questions
i cared to ask
i cared to relax
when that ******
muse that followed
has been burned
to ash
"It'll be easy"
it'll be perfect
warm dry
the air in these woods
is on fire
and a thousand crickets
stop chirping