Magic Circle of Light

Pinch of dry ricegrass, several twigs from dead-fallen blackbrush, slender tips of juniper branches gathered off the ground. Touch a lighter to the grass, let the fire crackle and rise. Load twigs as needed, blowing at the right moment to spread the flame. This warms the hands and face, gives the body something to do besides walking over rock and snow.

I got up early on a winter dawn, last stars exiting the high desert sky, southeast Utah. I left my two kids asleep in the tent. Their grandpa was camped nearby along the same dry wash, they’d be fine. In still air over humpbacks of sandstone, ravens flew past, wings rowing hard to keep them airborne in the morning chill. I knelt at a slickrock rivulet, a place water goes when it rains. The fire I made there would last ten minutes at most, twigs and juniper slivers, nothing longer than my hand. It was small enough I could hang my body around it,