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Magic in the Sparks... Dancers in the Flames
by James Dalton Byrd
We built our campfire
by the lake.
A small offering of beaver-cut wood
to ward off the chill of early spring.
The warm glow swelled into the evening
and tiny lights
followed the spirit of the fire
into the sky.
How many twilights have found us projecting our dreams
into the magic of the sparks?
How many times have our souls provided the inner music
for the dancers in the flames?
I watch you, sweet daughter,
and think of all the children of our kind
who huddled near a fire.
Their tradition spans thousands of years
to this fire and you.
Your brothers and sisters,
who lived in the ages ruled by ice,
pushed sticks into their fires
and they, too,
wrote their names against the night.