Finally, I see the stars. 

Not just of the Windows home background slideshow. 

Nor the city nightlight that draws in baby beached turtles. 

Stars so clear I can count them, even through soot covered glass. 

The moon, waning gibbous, an orange yellow like the fire I keep alive.

Waving a smoldering stick, embers engulfing the tip.

Emitting carbon into the sky, like thick cut incense, a romanticized life.

Fiery pulsating anaconda skin patterns emerge on burning bark to prey on the chirping toads. 

Watching blades of grass curl in on themselves, fire burning hot against my left cheek and smoke finally making its way towards me. 

Fire in nature is destructive, yet, trading it logs in return for warmth, light and entertainment nothing seems more rejuvenating. 

Resisting the masculine urge to dip my shoelaces into the white coals. 

Embers violently fly onto the semi-wet grass, threatening uncontrolled flame, only to be swiftly stomped. 

Can't be too anxious to move away from the smoke, it senses my contempt, gravitates towards it. 

The moon, once a fluorescent yellow, now a bright white, reflecting the once setting sun and the now gone sun. 

And the brightest star isn't one, besides myself, is perhaps a planet. 

I wish for the light to dim, subsequently for fire to die, at least somewhat. 

My eyes sting, for various reasons. 

Yet I don't wish to shut them, not a pair at once. 

Right and then left, to make sure the fire still burns when I open. 

Even with both eyelids shut I see flickers. 

The roosters still sleep, but the owls shout loudly at each other. 

Perhaps they are waking up; or maybe finally resting. 

The sun attempts to rise and the stars slowly but surely flicker out, one after the other. 

In the distance I hear. Dogs barking? Or roosters chirping. 

But the owls still call. 

Suddenly a glimpse of sun. 

And condensation forms all around me, wetting my socks.