Eruptions
batter the skies,
Vulcan
under Etna spewing
fire.
Smoke’s on the rise,
the
midges flutter down.
The
setting needs to be right:
busy,
inattentive,
the
careless gloss so slight
a
deft midge would miss it.
The
flare is out by morning,
but
roads are grim with ash.
A cooler
bright is dawning
though
no midge flies today. 
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