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.
What was once charcoal now already's white ash. Day's on the chase, and dark's in a dash.