Dusk on the day before the full moon, I built the first fire in the fire pit. First outdoor fire we’ve had on the estate.
Hardly a chill in the air for most, but here in the coastal north Florida oak hammock in which I sit, the chill is enough for me to need shoes, long pants and sleeves, but not so much that the cool air that lays on my cheek is even a little uncomfortable. It is refreshing.
The small fire built is not so much a christening as the filling of a need to try-it-out. The air is so still the smoke makes a column perpendicular to the earth and drifts up through a small opening in the canopy high above. Egret and heron and ibis make their way home from the marsh and the steady trail of vapors strung out behind jets are tracks of people going home, and some leaving home, and some looking for a home at 35,000 feet.
I am at home, by the fire.
