Usually the end of the day ritual,

that starts with the collection of kindling.

Someone fancies themselves the fire maker, 

the magician of paper, kindling and fiddling.

With bigger pieces of wood and even bigger stories.,

the family gathers ’round.  One stays out of the smoke 

as graham crackers, marshmallows and chocolate

are presented for s’mores. The fire maker has now

stockpiled the night’s supply of wood. The coals build beneath 

the wood, glowing hot, pulsing orange. Sparks jet upward and 

sometimes outward. In time the food is done, the heads turn

upward to gaze past the trees toward the dense stars above.

Ghost stories are shared for the young. The story teller captures 

their imaginations at first, later they giggle.

Later the group grows quiet and turns inward. Eyes now look

into the fire, into the shimmering coals. Some poke long sticks

into the fire waiting for the end to ignite. The fire tender

oversees that no one collapses his nurtured fire. Lost in

thought, you feel the heat upon your face, your knees and shins.

Some move back a foot or so. Eventually, someone feels the

trance, the eyes stare, then they close. Time for bed. Some

retire, some stay around the fire, to talk in low tones.

The smells, the sounds, the visions, the memories combine

into the Campfire Trance.