The fire is dwindled down to logy coal.
Ay, my roaring stove has been exhausted.
It kindled warmth, with passion sang its soul;
then in frigid darkness – somehow lost it.
Hours ago, the hottest I remember,
I felt it toast my face and proof my core.
Now it crumbles cold to crusted ember,
and long is night to go on empty store.
I try to stoke it, feed the famished fire,
but every piece I pile only smothers.
The birch, the oak, and all that I desire
overwhelms the remnants like the others.
It seems the only hope to stave its death
is twig the grounds that glow and give them breath.
It’s been a full schedule with little time to get into the woods… but I had a few hours un-allotted and so I set out to ski a chilly February morning at the nearby Bass Brook WMA by Pokegama Dam. Temperatures were hovering just above -10F. I was hoping to see an owl or some other good bird activity, but the woods were pretty silent.
We set up camp and gathered plenty of wood, expecting the evening temperatures to plummet. It started with a lot of smoke choking us in the setting sun, and finally blazed to a warm and welcoming fire. As we sat comfortably around our campfire in the dark, I scarcely believed the local temperature reading of twenty-something below zero… until I stepped away from the fire and wandered up the hill to the thunder box, or stepped out onto the lake to see the stars. Then the cold would bite, and I’d agree with the degrees claimed by my weather app.
