My twenty second fire was made alone in the pouring cold rain on the roots of a sycamore tree in my parent's backyard, at dark, while the creek flash flooded. I actually have a very good picture: the flood water in the dark looks like another type of gray fire.

I felt something powerful as I stood there, genuinely pleased at my own ability, the concoction of fat wood and birthday crepe paper needed to start a little blaze in such elements felt dear to me and smelled good. It wasn't at all release, even if I put the pieces of the fire one by one into the blown out water and watched the night turn blacker and blacker with each vanished flame. 

Then I walked home through the water-gorged, coyote-rich woods. 

Like an answer to something I called, I had such dreams.