Playing with Fire

Shall I not have intelligence with the earth? Am I not partly leaves and vegetable mould myself. - Thoreau

Mountain pines perform an olfactory ballet.

Like a poor man's potpourri.

Meandering brook whispers ancient, unspoiled, blue-tooth secrets.

Nearby, an old tin coffee pot stands guard over bacon and eggs as they begin a blind date in a black, cast-iron skillet.

Transcending the flames of a timeless, open fire.

Satisfying existence's primeval desire ...

Author's Note

"If I put my head deliberately into the fire, there is no appeal to fire or to the maker of fire, and I have only myself to blame." - Thoreau