Camp

And it crackled, distillated, kerplunked, exchanging distinct glows for prescient glances of some long forgotten intuition coaxed from a moment of revelation, guiding, highlighting, sitting. There. Glaring at the wood while it burns, burns bright, and the ashes and the coals drifting and shifting through the night, dispersed, integral. The heat like hearts and healing, pumping, congealing work and relaxation on a smooth white pine stump, next to a fallen log and a reclining furrow built into the landscape. Constantly changing shape yet stable, there, its affects fleetingly permanent, revitalized, and demanding, ensconced in their flaming bower, igniting seclusion and sequestering warmth. A sweater and a jacket drying out by the North-Eastern slabs, a pair of jeans on the ground (for it had been raining earlier). The odd owl heard a hooting along with snapping, moonlit sounds. And some beers.