It is Magical the Way a Fire Dances

on the log with battle scars
from my father's
ax. It dances to the music of
the rustling leaves in the trees,
the soft, calming hoots of the owls
and the ghost stories we like to tell
while we roast marshmellows,
their color fading
from white to golden brown.
 
When we run out of stories,
we unroll the hose and extinguish
the fire. The sizzling ashes dry and blow
away, and then we wait until our bonfire
next week, when the fire will come
alive again and dance on
the dance floor of dry wood.