Lightning split a winter sky,
struck a tree and caught ablaze.
“Splutter, hiss—spit, spit,” said the fire,
and refused to burn bright.

A gazelle saw the glimmer and moved close.
“Burn brighter,” he said.

“Why should I burn for you?”
the fire asked.

“Because I am cold,” said the gazelle,
and shivered to the tops of his horns.

“Splutter, hiss—spit, spit,” said the fire.
“I once saw a creature with no fur.
Bare feet in the snow. No hooves. No nice coat.
I did not warm one who was colder than you,
and I will not warm you.”

Chilled bone deep, the gazelle walked on
and left prints in the snow.

A zebra saw the glimmer and moved close.
“Burn brighter,” she said.

“Why should I burn for you?”
the fire asked.

“Because I am beautiful,” the zebra said,
and swished her dark, pretty tail.

“Splutter, hiss—spit, spit,” said the fire.
“I once saw a creature with eyes like emeralds
and feathers of gold. With a voice like a godly wind.
I did not warm one who was more beautiful than you,
and I will not warm you.”

Tossing her glossy mane, the zebra walked on
and left prints in the snow.

A mouse saw the glimmer and moved close.
“Please burn brighter,” she said.

“Why should I burn for you?”
the fire asked.

“Because I am so small,” the mouse said,
and curled her tiny body against the wind.

“Splutter, hiss—spit, spit,” said the fire.
“I once saw creatures so small they could carry
tiny grains of sand on their backs, and
they lived underground by the thousands.
I did not warm ones who were smaller than you,
and I will not warm you.”

Tiny paws red with cold, the mouse moved on
and left prints too small to see.

A lion saw the glimmer and leapt close.
“Burn brighter!” he roared.

“Why should I burn for you?”
the fire asked.

“Because I will tear you apart if you don’t,” said the lion,
and gnashed his white teeth.

“Splutter, hiss—spit, spit,” said the fire.
“I once saw a creature with fangs thick as trees
and sharp as blades. Its bellow shook the ground.
I did not warm one who was more fearsome than you,
and I will not warm you.”

With a great angry snarl, the lion gnashed his white teeth,
bit the broken, burning limb,
and with a mighty shake of his mighty mane,
hurled the fire into the dark.

“Splutter, hiss—spit, spit,” said the fire,
but it felt cold.

It felt alone.

The fire felt cold,
and alone,
and could see nothing
but dark.

“Why don’t you burn brighter?”
a voice said.

“Why should I burn for you?”
the fire asked.

A creature crept close; thick fur in the cold,
bright eyes in the dark.
It looked at the fire.
It sniffed at the fire.

With small, dark hands,
it gripped the limb
and pulled it close

out of the snow,
and out of the wind.

“Splutter, hiss—spit, spit,” said the fire,
but it felt so much warmer,
so much nicer,

out of the snow,
and out of the wind.

“Why should I burn for you?”
the fire asked again.

The creature blinked.
“I did not ask you to burn for me,”
it said.

The fire spluttered,
the fire hissed.
The fire spit and spit.
It trembled and shivered on its limb.

Then burned bright in the dark
to keep itself warm.

After a time,
it did not splutter.
The fire did not hiss or spit.

After a time,
the creature came near
and felt warm.