—
Blue smoke from the campfire shrouds my eyes
and, through it, people shimmer, and they don’t see
me as I am. I don’t think myself old, but
my son is young enough to be my grandson.
I am two generations removed from
being fascinated by hoot owls and
fox dens, hunting blinds and snakeskins. Even
marshmallow immolation does little
to stoke my imagination. But I
am still at an age where I love a good
story and a terrible skit. Embers
scatter the night skies like frantic flame-thrown
fireflies. Like love, it looks like sacrifice.
—
____
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