Embers burn with red reminders, of heat not yet gone,
With browns and blacks and whites falling from the yellowed mass,
Crooked lines soaring upward, waiting to be broken,
Brought down again in breaking easy falls.
The noise is pretty, a kind of whistle, with cracks and peeling
Sounds, wrapped around the wood, the limbs, the listener
All in one, with the darkness outside growing blacker
And the stillness becoming more and more still,
With eyes locked firmly on the light
Of the simple fire,
Going out.