The Firepit: A Prose Poem Of Sorts

Dark, murky dusk on a river finds the boys around a raging campfire. Logs are twisted in sharp directions, poking precariously towards the graying sky. The music that comes out of the immense Cerwin Vega speakers is a crackly, tinny selection of mostly old school country and rock 'n' roll, interspersed with metal, punk, indie, and Deep Purple. The portable record player does its best to keep up with the steady stream of dust and dirt from long forgotten grooves. Drinks and beers are lofted skyward in respect for new friendship and ancient camaraderies. The whiskey mixes with the beer in an interminable amount of Krunt pulls, swigs straight from the flask, and attempts at shoddy mixers. Yet the music blares on, not impeded by the sound of a car door cracking or a drunken stumble through the mud to the far away outhouse.

The night eventually winds down. A crack of light is seen in the sky. Political discussions, story-telling, wrestling on the rocky ground, will all drift seamlessly between time and life, like the rocks of the river. The bottles and cans will be collected. The woodpile will be gone. But we will return. Through the sunny mornings in full cars, dragging boats and emotions behind us, looking yet again for release. The river and woods will find us in great spirits. The cabin will jut from the ground, its damaged chimney and sad windows always a reminder. We will make our way here through our various lives.


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