the fire

Acrid scent,
not the promise of well cooked food,
but of animals screaming,
running,
Firies fighting, straining,
helicopters hovering, covering
hot fields with precious water.

It wafts on the breeze,
this reminder of death and destruction,
simply an annoying tickle to the nose,
when spending your day on other things,
like a fly that won't stay swatted,
or a neighbour that can't be avoided.

The smell is not the worst of it.

Perhaps that's why,
even though it lingers,
permeates hair, clothes and rooms,
acts in every way possible to scream it's deadly news,

we can still ignore,
despise,
revile it.

Hah!

I'm only covered in smoke,
the fire holds no real fear for me!