As I dart in close to drop on a log
the hairs on my knee singe. They
shrink and curl and shrivel to my skin
so it looks like I shaved my legs in
blotches and clumps. Flames dance
and crackle and leap, and as a
gentle wind blows, bully their way
to my side of the pit forcing a retreat
from the branches I cut that will soon be fuel.
A decade of deadfall disappears
as workers work and children learn and
people like me look for something to do
alone on a quiet afternoon.