Cent et Un Mots par Jour

It was raining black. Flecks of ashes fell from the sky, from the dark cloud of smoke that floated above the forest. But there was light, light from the red tongue licking the trees. The rumble of the fire covered the birds' cries. The oaks and maples and chestnuts groaned from the pain of being burned to death. They creaked and cracked and fell, their leafy crown nothing more than black twigs and charred leaves. And just like that, for an abandoned match, a century old wood would be no more in the morning, when the smoke would be gone and the sun would rise above a grey desert.

Claire Annovazzi