The flames crackling with desire.
Trees shrouded around it like a nest,
Noble firs of the northwest.
Sticks scattered across the forest floor.
No entrance to this sacred place, not even an opened door.
But there was one tiny mouse
Who wears no blouse,
But prefers the feathers of a black grouse.
She wears them nestled upon her hair
And they go every which way due to the air.
She dances all night around the bonfire
And only until sunrise hits will she retire.
This piece of land is her own
Her magnificent throne.