The smoke

The clouds were low and the trees bent under their weight. A hare paused, sniffing the sky, and shook itself and sprang away. This was no day not to be hidden.

Soon the smoke rose. It made a flimsy layer beneath the clouds and built and built on itself, a millefeuille of gas and carbon. The glow reflected off the sunken ceiling. The night came and the glow became more so, and the stars were no more, or nobody could see if they were.

The hare slept beneath knotted brambles and the crackling of wood set its long ears twitching.

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