By OWEN SAARINEN
The campfire knows
the rotten log,
the bending stick, the
meal maker’s hands on
a pile of dew-dropped
kindling. Like a fussy
baby, she won’t eat. He nimbly
crafts the cabin, then the teepee,
then the ring is cleared,
and finally, the touch
is made from birchbark to
sultry wood that starts
to hiss. In momentary joy,
the tender allows his creation
to sputter freely, coaxing
air into the concentrated
flame and ember.
Both know the game, and he
must spoon feed the driest
brush or the agreement
will not hold. The fire to
crackle to life; the pot to
boil on a stable grate of wood;
the flames to lick high; to be
satisfied, satisfied, yes
Cooking on the fire is beans and
rice and water for tea.
Nothing better than black night and
warmed cheeks and knees.
The spoon clinks and another stick is fed.
Cleaned pot, ashes
stomped, now it’s time for bed.
