| "Tonight is different, and I feel like being surrounded by the old symbols of life on the ground - the smell of smoke, the warmth and color of the flames." |
| There are very few clouds in the western sky. The sun goes down easy, gently dousing the coral light that lays unruffled on the river, and then slowly pulling shadows up the trunks and branches of the fir and pines. I do not often build a fire in summer, but tonight I do. | |||||||||
|
|||||||||
|
|||||||||
| Tonight is different, and I feel like being surrounded by the old symbols of life on the ground-the smell of smoke, the warmth and color of the flames. In the very last of the light I try to write a few notes, but it's nearly impossible to see what I'm doing. And besides, right now I'm not up to interpretations. It seems better just to lay a few more sticks on the fire. And dream. | |||||||||
|
|||||||||
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|