She once had read of distant tropic isles,
where birds the size of elephants still lived,
and with their wings stirred hurricanes from dew.
Outside, the chickens strut and peck the dirt.

The single book she owns still tells of times
when princes quested to the world's edge,
and burning djinn left wakes of ashen plains.
Thin smoke trails from the chimney to the sky.

She sighs and glances to the window. Strange,
the plains have darkened early -- thunderclouds
are coming, floods of shadow rushing in.
The wind is lashing. Chickens squawk and flee.

Then talons tear the cottage walls away.
She unfolds from the wreck, tall and aflame.