It's a warm night for this late in the year. Warm because the sun shone unobstructed throughout the afternoon and early evening, only now beginning its decent behind the western hills. Warmer yet because the fire burns hot and bright between us, joyfully dancing in the same colors as the turning leaves. Red and orange and yellow tongues transmute dry wood to ash and smoke, granting us a short extension of light and warmth as the sun departs.
We share in the old tradition; I'll not call it time-honored as it is no longer honored by many and certainly not by the charlatan Time. We share in the old tradition of story telling around a fire, of filling the hours and minutes with myths and legends as the night floods in above and around. Until the moon has reached it's zenith above us, until it's right there between the tip of that tree and that star, let us tell tales we've heard or embellished or imagined. Let us speak until the flames burn themselves out of things that can only exist in the hours after the sun has fled and only as we near the end of October.
Let my words mingle with the shifting smoke in the night air, billowing forward and backward through time, as I begin our first story.
UNDER CONSTRUCTION. (see header)