The sculptress in Birtle, Man.,

keeps busy, in the hinterland.

redeems the time.

From the slime

By her dynamic hand

ceramic dragons rise.

Surprise

fills the prairie void

She feels the hot breath

smells charred, incendiary death

molding noses.

Presupposes

(so she finally saith),

that in mud the fire lingers

bites fingers

makes them rheumatoid.

Crouching, wings unfolding

eyes burning, holding

nothing back.

Attack! Attack!

It’s fear, she’s molding,

terror, just a whiff

as if

to be enjoyed.

Look! horror on display!

Not clay, not clay!

Mud moves the hand.

Who can understand

who can say

what earth remembers;

the breath of fire, the embers

the asteroid?

Mud dragons are to live with

their might mere myth

by the fireplace.

(just in case).

Their incandescent pith

awaits a call

to burn, to burn it all;

hatred unalloyed!