Burning with a quick thin flame

charcoaled scarves blow whole and fall

in a field no green has touched at all.

heavy-handed, hoarse complaining,

treading down the liquid snow,

they strut on brittle legs, no shyness feigning,

thinking that it’s they who’s reigning.

Knowing no one any better,

they assume they are the best

Never will they understand the quaintness of this jest.