It is night.
Woods surround our camp,
and the moon reveals
droplets of water on the tent.
The air bites my skin
and my breath dissipates
into the air.
“Fire’s ready,” says my Dad.

I watch the fire.
Red and orange ribbons dance
upon the wooden stage, and sparks snap
like kernels popping.
The warmth embraces my skin
like a mother cradles her baby.

My dad gives me
a pack of marshmallows and
a stick.
I spear
a marshmallow and
place it over the fire.

The fire encases the marshmallow
and the snowy surface burns
to ash.
Once a cloud, now cinder.
I taste the warm, white center which flows
down my throat and satiates my stomach.
I rest my eyes and revel
in this blissful sensation.