With the Wings of Ashy Birds.

We.
Two groundlings.
Two trees.
With our roots rooted deep in the ground.
Stretching out gnarled old fingers,
To a sky we’ll never touch.
It.
One silhouette.
One cigarette.
With burning orange embers.
Fallen in the dry flammable grass,
A kindled flame burning into a raging fire dragon.
We.
Two burning groundlings.
Two burning trees.
Free from physical bounds, unrooted from a rooted ground.
We fly with the wings of ashy birds,
Carried on a hindered wind.