We sit close to the fire, and I hold you. Iridescence ripples in waves against the small angular frame of your glasses. It is the beginning. Of what, who can really say?
I peer into this now roaring fire. It violently builds and starves in short bursts with small branches and twigs, and leaves. We build it back up. We watch it peter out. We go again and again into the trees in search of more downed limbs. The fire dies alone in the night. Our bodies grow cold as we huddle in our tent.
A fire from branches and twigs crackles its last while another roars in our minds, our hearts. It has been building from little excursions through prairie grass. It has seeped into our hearts while wading into the Big Muddy. It tiptoed in as slyly as the fox.
In the morning, we awake. We find the smouldering ashes of the fire. It burned so brightly, so intensely, roaring in the night only to die away so fast.
As I hold you in my arms, I feel another fire.