Embered

The surfer in a barrel is stoked. The me in my chair is embered.

I sit here in the wee hours, the orange glow of a big log placed hours ago my companion. Not a lick of flame to be seen, not a candlepower of light to see by. Just that warmth, the occasional crackle as wood goes from smooth to alligatory to ash, the smell wafting up memories.

Like the relaxation after revelation, the ember embodies fire without flowery flame. Meanwhile, outside, moonglow on the snow is softened by a high haze (and maybe the low smoke of more fires like mine), delicate despite the full moon. Nothing more falling, just a white blanket reminder of the storm that was.

Maybe time to slip back on the morpheal path, savor the quiet until I drift off and dream. Maybe ride that long left between conscious and not, where dad and slipped-away memories live, where the wild things aren't.