The fire hums its low refrain
soft crackles stitching time together.
Smoke drifts like memory
slow, deliberate, unafraid to linger.

The forest speaks back
each leaf whispering a secret
only silence understands.
Crickets keep the rhythm
a thousand tiny heartbeats in the dark.

I do not chase the moon tonight.
I let it find me
climbing gentle through the branches
a silver eye watching fire and man become one.

The bread tears soft in my hand
its warmth born of patience
its flavor
of smoke, salt, and solitude.

Something stirs beyond the glow
tiny feet on fallen leaves
a whisper of unseen life
moving through the rhythm of my breath.
I wonder who watches whom tonight
the wanderer or the wild
and smile
because neither of us means to disturb the peace.

And I
in this humble glow
remember what it means
to simply exist.