The first fire of the season was lit mid-day on Sunday, August 19th. Temperatures had fallen to thirty-five degrees Fahrenheit in the early morning hours, the house's heating system was still off, clouds had moved in, and a cold, windless rain was falling.
Flame took to the seasoned lodgepole pine at the mere suggestion of opportunity. Within minutes of the fire being lit, the room was filled with a familiar scent and sound that brought with it a feeling of change and a poignant reminder of time's ceaseless advance.
Within the hour, the first logs had lost their form and were transformed to charcoals—aglow with embers exhibiting vibrant ambers, reds, and brilliant, incandescent whites—before dissipating into a weightless, grey ash.
It was, indeed, a foreshadowing. The first fire intimated the renewal of an inevitable cycle and served as a reminder that nature acts on all things, and all things exist in her state of flux.
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