Saturday, June 20, 2009

i hear the sound of wind. i am born. i hear the sound of rain and storm and i am born. gingerly with dexterity each log is placed in the fire and as it burns it is slowly turned. the greener branches boil on the inside and the smattering hiss of water delights dripping to the ground; when all hope is lost water can be gathered by placing a bucket at the end of the branch and letting the water drip into that. the coals collect like a tire mound and here across the vision where light extends out a flying bug goes past and then disappears again into the darkness. grab hold and be moved until the fire is extinguished.

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