by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The threatening trees
by day
turned at night
to dancers round a fire,
the moon so bright
it made a jar-like sky
clear and empty,
a dance of life
with turning hypnotism,
patterned movements,
rushing fire-sparks.
The trees bent,
turning with the fire-moon,
all moving
on the breath of the wind,
fire and dancers
united
into an upward-moving flame.
The moon danced.
The trees shined.
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