It’s dark, with little wind, and we are alone watching only the flames and listening to the crackling, and smelling the aroma of the burning pine and oak. Each flame is unique with movements and degrees of color created by the moment of energy released. Each differing angle, while flickering clues, is
My treehouse with a thumb talks with an image less than itself. It mesmerizes mischief with Mayhem, like a tree watching its own growth on a ledge. Waterfall below. Thoughts in between. Taking longer than expected, the zipper of life made for a humble tremble.