I swallow smoke through my eyes rendering them temporarily blind.
Wet logs unfurl into coals, releasing vapor upwards.
The sky is blank, bare of anything of recognition.
No clouds, stars, celestial bodies – simply light blue setting into dark. Impossible to read.
It grows darker by the minute in that junction of the day where bird song still lingers to mix with incoming insects and their nightly chorus.
Heavenly harp strings layer the accompaniment, pulled at the wind’s whim as it passes gently through the oak branches and brass chimes.
The pond water is dead, full of murk and natural decay. A mosquito nesting ground, the water sits perfectly still like a well-behaved child.
A nesting ground for some, a mausoleum for others, there’s one less member of the summer night chorus tonight. A cremation for a lost Blue Jay unfortunate enough to drown while bathing. Hadn’t yet learned to fly – suppose it couldn’t swim either.
There is a peace that can only be found and experienced through nature, but nature is struggle. Life is struggle. Hatfield and McCoy, a feud with nature. Our nature.
Deep orange against bright white as the flames continue to slowly consume their meal.
The fire is fed modestly on modest provisions. A humble fire, but it suffices for its purpose.
I can see myself in the embers, but I can’t make out what time we’re in.
A house from the fifties, a backyard patio fit for the thirties, a fire on the frontier with the day rustled in. A house on the fringe of suburbia and time.
It’s a lovely moment, but only a moment. We always need something to burn.