Guessing Game

A well-thought campfire crackles at our feet

Our cheeks rosy and flushed, shoulders hunched down for warmth

Flames twitch over charred wood burnt hollow and colourless

Ash butterflies are taken away by the free, cold wind and

The taste of smoke settles into our hair and skin

I am adding branches to the fire, unrefined and with poor judgment, and

It does not take long to collapse

Sparks flare outwards, the rhythm of the flames is stifled

But delicate curls of grey breathe from the scattered splinters

Blades of grass hiss and burn and firelings take shape

I laugh excitedly and fight the urge to kick the tiny, scorching bodies

To spread them as far as they will reach

You fill a bucket with water

As I am washing my hands in the flames