It looks like a mushroom cloud fading after the bomb’s gone off.
Or that Dust Bowl in nineteen-something-or-other
Or those stars on the plane back from vacation to a place I don’t remember.
It looks like Apocalypse, with planets falling, and a red sky.
Or fireflies when we made s’mores that evening.
Or fire embers given off as we burned leaves like pyros.
“It looks like dust, Jess, don’t be stupid.
Just bits of dead things floating around,
Because no one bothered to clean down here.”
So it’s like millions of tiny mummies, flying?
Or sacrifices to gods of hate?
Or even a little homicide of wayward fairies?
“No, I mean dust. The stuff of things left behind.
Forgotten, and never touched again.
What are you, crazy?”
So they’re little specks of treasure, then.
Hidden by ancient peoples of yore.
And Indy can’t see ‘em, they’re so insignificant.
“No, you idiot! Dust!
Not fairy murders, or shooting stars!
Just dust, and nothing more.”
Well, fine, but what about the bunnies?
I wrote this a while ago and forgot all about it, but I kind of like it. Critiques are always appreciated.