Campfire

I collect wood, with my boy scout troop.
ranging from small twigs, to logs.
We light the wood shavings,
watch it sputter…
and fade out.
I gently blow on it,
watch it flare…
and burn, moving among the other pieces of wood.
We feed the fire,
and watch it go through those twigs like a knife through butter.
The rustic smell of smoke fills the air,
and I cough.
I pile up the wood. From twigs, to sticks, to logs.
I have fire.
I have warmth.
I have comfort.
I have light.
I have happiness.
I have fire.





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