The fire burns. The mix of fir and cherry wood smoke fill the surrounding air. Heavy with the wet stench of the old wet wood. The embers liquid orange, flames lapping at its fuel, burning itself out in the process. Rage fire, rage with flames high into the evening sky. Spark, pop, crack, and send tendrils and parts of yourself flying into the darkness. Rage fire.
Rage fire, so that I do not. I have always held anger deep within since finding fly fishing. These days it wants to creep and seep up, oozing its hurtful painful self into my fibers. Rage fire…so that I may not.
I would rather be sad and weep then to clench my teeth and tighten my body as that rage moves through…so rage fire and let me bask in its essence. So that I may not…rage.
The clouds hang low, a quiet still over the forest. The plink and plop of light rain hisses and sizzles in the fire. The flames to intense for the fire to feel the gloom. Rage fire…as I too don’t want to feel the gloom.
The heat hits my face and pushes away that seeping ooze from within. Keeping it at bay as the flames rage and race, sucking all the oxygen from within the rock hearth; barely containing the ferocity of the fire. Tentacles of orange grasping at the night 4 and 5 feet high now! Rage! Fire! Rage until there is no more to fuel your wrath! Rage until the forests burn, the world ashes, the skies fill with your heavy thick smoke! Consume all that stand before you, reckless and abandoned of care, path or purpose! Do you hear me fire!? I say rage! Rage…I pleade rage fire….so that I may not…..
….the fire dims…the fuel it needs all but charcoal, barely visible against the blackness of night. Will dawn approach soon and that fire of a star rage all into light? I will not wait to see it rise. The fire before me all but a hum of what it was. It’s spent, burnt, the fire no longer rages…but do I?