Last night's full moon eye wavered behind a filigreed shimmer of bonfire heat. Tadpole sparks flew upwards against an indigo night sky; strings of orange drew a quick sketch upwards from antlers of fire-white. River sounds of crackle and stream sounded from the piles of white cracked logs and branches, and I quietly kicked off my moccasins and stretched out my bare feet to warm them, seated on a wooden chair ~ the crowds had dispersed for home and I had the fire all to myself.
I sat there for ages, hearing the voices of friends and family far away across the lawn, watching the sparks toss into the sky above the treeline, watching the moon swell and then disappear behind clouds. Hearing the mellow sounds of crickets lulled into sleepiness by the colder air.
It had turned out to be a perfect night.