The heat from the fire causes my sweatshirt heat up and warm. The fire glows soft and bright, casting light on an assembly of green, war beaten, camp chairs. The canvas has little holes, ringed in black, from fires past. Cups and empty wine bottles lay at the feet of the chairs, accompanied by dogs, their tails oddly silent. From the dogs’ collars run knotted and worn leashes running into green plastic covered wire tethering them to a nearby picnic table. Shadows lay over the small pointy pebbles turning them from dusty, burnt, red to black. A few feet away lie the trees, tall, dark, and foreboding.
    The fire flickers and grows whenever another log is added to the burnt pile of logs. Bright red and orange sparks explode from the fire with mighty crackling sounds. A few sparks land on the pebbles, creating their own little glow, the sound of a hiking boot twisting quietly in the dirt follows and the sparks glow is no longer. Around you can hear sounds of other fires. Voices and laughter fill the air outside of the ring of rocks containing the flames. The sound of opening and closing of doors to RVs and trailers are barely audible. A gentle breeze causes the flames to tilt, it’s whispers are heard in the trees, as each branch bends with the flames. The wind causes a cloud of noxious smoke to follow the beauty outside of the circle. The victim’s eyes tear up and burn. They subconsciously inhale little parts of the gray cloud causing an intense painful sensation to bloom in their throat. The wind shifts, and the smoke loyally follows, leaving the taste of cedar wood hanging in the air.
     Following the flames up, grey wisps of smoke float toward the stars, dancing as they go. Gray and misty it chases its sibling up through the navy tinted, black sky. Soon the smoke disappears into the  night’s apparent darkness. As my eyes travel upward with the smoke a smattering of white, celestial stars become apparent. Suddenly a feeling of smallness swallows me whole. The stars are bright, white beacons lighting up the sky in little formations,and it is possible to see the Milky Way. A thousand stars combine and dodge through the trees. They create little shadows of light in the sky, casting a glow on the tops of trees. For a moment it is possible to recognize how infinitely large and astoundingly small the world is. A longing to see the world and stay exactly where I am collide and a desire to to be a part of something takes hold of me. In this moment I feel alone, yet I know there are people next to me. The world has created a moment of oxymorons, yet at the time all I see are little stars that create a swirling light through the night sky. The heat of the fire brings me back.
        The fire grows warmer in contrast with the night. The sounds of the campfires around start to diminish. A sound of peacefulness settles throughout the campground. The silence echoes along with the noises of the forest. Branches on the trees rustle and twigs snap in the distance. All around are the stars, bright and ever present. The smell of wood burning has seeped into my clothes and blankets by now. Cedar and pine hang heavy in the air as a pile of needles picked off of the red pebbles are thrown onto the fire. They are yellow with little brown spots everywhere, the needles snap easily under my fingers. The new kindling takes a while to catch, perhaps because it is still wet from the early dew. The ends of the needle begin to glow red with heat till a tiny, minuscule, scarlet flame catches. The flame races down the needle and leaves a trail of black behind it, till all that's left are dying yellow embers glowing on a black canvas.
       The flame grows smaller and the night grows colder. The logs are burnt and black. It seems as though a single touch to them would cause them to collapse, yet another log is not added. Outside of the circle there are yawns and whispers of exhaustion, the day's adventures weighing heavily on people's minds and eyelids. The sound of a spigot can be heard, a loud, gushing, chaotic sound. It's as if a river were nearby, but shortly after the spigot was first heard it stops, leaving silence to reclaim the air. Steps can be heard in harmony with drops of water hitting the ground, forming little mud puddles where they landed. A blue, wrinkly, canvas bucket comes into the glow of the fire. The bucket is taken by its thin metal handle and one hand is placed on the hard, white, plastic bottom. In swift, precise, unpracticed movement the bucket is overturned and the loud, gushing, chaotic, sound of the river returns, this time, however, it is accompanied by a loud, angry hiss. The hiss soon evolves into a dying sputter, till it is silent once again. The fire no longer casts a warm welcoming glow, but is now, instead a whitish-gray cloud of vapor going upwards the sky and expanding past the circle. I can slowly start to feel the cold of the outside air against my sweatshirt and I am left wishing for a warm fire.