Up the flue the brush is pushed.
Matt black soot absorbs light: only in specks, for light is not easily consumed.
Lit, the fire hacks thick smoke.
The soot still bothers it, still catches in the throat of the house.
Outside, gluts of rain slick the roads, bog the fields.
A brash wind bullies tall trees.
-How else to dry the washed clothes?
Lit, the fire stays.