Iron Cold and colder, cold, still, and still colder lies the land under Lucifer obscured by the dark and darker clouds and trees. Barely a breeze whispers in a deep, deeper freeze.
Morning creeps upward, tingeing just barely dank orange the distant edge of earth's blackness.
Below vehemence of crow-calls the horizon begins slowly burning. The iron clouds hanging, now reflecting the molten forges beneath, stll cloistering, still holding, still keeping the cold sky from Dawn's blast. She's a will to persist though, and some iron's now heated whiter than snow. The metal is melting, drifting, falling in drops. Stillness yet pervades, a chimney plume waves.