There is a beauty in fire that I have never been able to put into words. Maybe these are the words that I’ve never been able to say.
We sit by the fire and watch the lazy flames lick their way up the wood, climbing higher and higher into the sky, the sparks shooting up into the stars as though they could join them there.
I shift in my camping chair a little and put my book down. Not that it’s not interesting—it is. Another one of those post-apocalyptic dramas where everyone focuses on the love triangle but really it’s about the political commentary and the what-ifs and the intensity of it all.
But I put it down anyway because really there’s not enough light to read by, not anymore. The sun has long since set, and the fire is flickering and unreliable. The fire. It pops and crackles almost constantly—probably the kind of wood we used—and I can’t help but look back to it every few seconds.
Look at the trees swaying in the wind above me,
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