In the fireplace is all that color and it sends forth such warmth that my feet edge ever closer to the hearth. My wool socks start to get to hot, so I withdraw the digits to a more respectable distance.We have a semi-circle of perched feet in jostled chairs vying for the warm effect.
Our glasses seem to be in constant need of filling and we as a group tonight don’t feel the need to be marchin after ice and the jug of internal warmth, especially after how colds it’s been outside so we skip the cubes and on an as needed basis, we pour it straight and pass to the needs of all present. It’s just too cold, to be too concerned.
As we reheat our innards the conversation has made its way round to what we did and what we will do. We go over last year’s deer, ducks, fish and so forth. We muse with what we will try to tune or tweak for next year.
The conversation moves at the pace of every so often a log of wood gets added to the fire and some new thought is mulled over.
From across the great room comes a shot heard round the house and we bolt upright from our warm lazy stupor. A log, in my log home, pop’t, from the outside air temps, a log of many logs piled that kindle the warmth within.
It’s too cold out and blessed be the warmth from within but the logs can’t be hot and cold lain as if that’s just fine and dandy like us so they start to sound off.
If the wood had a spirit it must want to scream for the cold as the barked logs years ago scribed mitered and chinked in place aren’t allowed to move and for the wood blazing away in the fire rapidly being consumed so the logs groan and rifle shot about the house.
After we drain the jug, the night somehow has consumed us as well. Each guest off to a bunk of his or her choosing and I damper the fire. One last check of the temperature outside. I shake my head at the low number. A log goes off almost in agreement.
The trout whisperer