fire and rock

It's Friday night and we are in the woods of Wisconsin, there is no wind and the moon is about a quarter of the way up the sky.  I'm stoking the fire, placing logs, poking around, circling the fire stones.  Coyotes are cackling in the distance, sometimes they sound human.  He is strumming the guitar, picking every once and a while, then silence, deafening, a moment later leaves get crushed underfoot and my heart beats faster.  Hopelessly I shine the heavy stainless steel torch on thin tree trunks and low brush.  It's impossible to penetrate and I look and feel ridiculous.  My city ears are too twitchy, my head spins around at each new sound.  The coyotes have moved to the northwest.  It was probably a toad hopping through the brush, making a lot of noise for such a small critter.

I feel such gratitude for these experiences.   

There is always a point in the evening when I notice the face in the rock.  After that, I can't stop looking at him....

The fire reveals many moods in the face.  On this night, D wonders how it is that the rock got placed like that.  Where did it come from?  How long has it been there?

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