URGING THE LITTLE FELLERS
Don't go anywhere; I urge you not to leave.
You'll see so many things just by staying.
Each time you flick a light on, something
happens that calls back the ages to remember:
the snap and the crack of forest lightning-storm
fires; the blaze of spreading glory over layers
of mossy intent. Shacks that burn in a second,
flimsy wood like tinder, dry and ready. High
up, along the hillsides, you'll see encampments.
Little people, elves and dwarves who dwell,
will scamper as the flames surround them,
but they scamper in glee and thrive on these
things. They are sprites, compared to us.
Almost bodiless imaginings of another world.
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