The wind is howling
white noise
             percussion against the window pains
the sound outside fighting to get in

             Could it be the warmth of the fire?
                           the dead trees split and parched
                                        combust and conspire
             to put the whole place to flames
if only they could
             transcend the bricks between them.

Some are born to burn
             others are made to build

Still others are outside
                           in the moonlight
             battling with the turmoil

Silence can be so loud in an empty house
             too afraid to burn.