Wheeling Gull Isle Man Machine Poem

It crept up slowly, over the course of the day, carried by the wind. The morning had been bright, with a pale blue sky, but as the day went on, that cerulean slowly became an odd, hazy golden grey. Of course, the young pup didn't take notice of the sky, not until the evening came around and she toddled out of the den after an afternoon nap. It was then that the smell hit her, and caused her nose to wrinkle. She tentatively moved further from the den's mouth, and looked up into the sky where the setting sun had turned to a bright pink behind the sheet of golden haze. Thresher's ears turned back- she'd never seen anything like that before. 

The smell was new to her too, and made the back of her throat feel scratchy, and when she dropped her gaze, she noticed the soft, greyish film that had covered the leaves and grass. She lowered her head to sniff at it, and made herself sneeze in the process. A few of the ashes landed back on the bridge of her muzzle, which she then tried to paw or lick off, but found that the grey stuff also tasted horrible. Slightly offended and still offput by the strange change in climat, she hunkered down, watching the sun set, hoping that this yucky, fluffy, horrible-tasting stuff would go away.