On the Whim of the Wind

No rooster crowed the tenebrous morning I woke to somber skies aflame. As dawn rose across a crimson horizon, a firestorm blazed from a golden core and scarlet lava flowed above the plains. Charred, were black mordant clouds. Menancingly, they swept over my barn. A rubicund threat; a hazard to the earth, an inferno; a warning of ill-fated death. Terror filled me as fire encroached, knowing I would become a torch, kindled when scorching embers approached to ignite me, rendering a fight for life futile. Laughter heard as I became ribbons of smoke. Soon, my ashes would be airborne, and all that would remain of me would be carried on the whim of the wayward wind.