You are seated before a bonfire, feeling both the heat that embraces your exposed hands and face and the cool night wind that pulls at your clothes and the grasses of the fields stretching out beyond sight. Someone has put a blanket over your shoulders. It shields you from the loneliness that sits beside you, rubbing its aching wrists and quiet feet.

Someone made this blanket, and their every good thought was woven into the fibers. Now, their goodness becomes a comforting aura, and you look out into the night with courage while the fire crackles on sleepily.

There are other bonfires. Other people. Some sitting before the flames, some making their way through the dark from one fire to another. Some stride as if following the voices of their future selves, others tread through the long grass with the caution of deer at the edge of a dawning.

You turn your attention back to your place by this fire where each ember, each curl of smoke, and each rising spark have become familiar.

You are cloaked in the gentle darkness, and your eyes are full of riotous firelight.

Above you, the stars shine cold and sharp, and on the far horizon, a sliver of moon starts to rise.

The night wears a wild grin, but it does not hint at danger. It promises that the fire is warm because the night is cold, and that when it’s time to wander, no matter how far your feet take you, another bonfire will always be within sight. The fires may be where you can catch your breath, but the dark expanses between them are where you get to howl with the midnight winds and wear your own feral smile.

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