Like a sneaky wild cat hunting its next prey
It makes very little sounds at first
When it's ready to attack however,
You can hear the creeks and cracks under its racing feet a mile away.

A fire log is burning ever so slowly
With it's glorious flames dancing up and down on it's back
The crackling of its parts breaking under the intense heat.
There's a certain beauty in its death.

The prey and the wood log both turn into ash, eventually.

Mariette St-Denis
Poem 18
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