Ít is subtle at first
Perhaps the snap-fresh and cool smell of broken twigs
Kindling like the musk of forest floor
If you sit close, the first-ash of a branch catching fire
If you throw in paper as an entree - yesterday’s news will start to smell ink-burned

Once the logs catch alight the caramel-smoke will start to waft outwards
Full and wooden and whole air to fill the space around your laughter
If it finds some foliage left behind, the air will be smoke-grey for a moment
If you inhale you might cough out frost-char

Later
When the laughter is murmurs and deep-thought
The fire is filled with the desperate attempts to keep it alive
The chemical-twang of plastic
A charcoal-sting from the last of the newspaper
If you poke it you will catch the sweet-spark of the final log
If you look back at the stars you can almost taste the bird-song of dawn

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