It wasn’t until well after the spark had first ignited the kindling that the campfire became self aware. Thrilled with her gift of life, she leaped skyward, but never left the tether of the crackling  logs that held her in place amid a small circle of stones. In time, her flames withered in size but  not her lust for life, her gratitude to whatever power brought her this fragile but wonderful  experience of existing. She counted a half dozen boys asleep in the nearby grass, sleeping bags  revealing only their angelic faces and the rising and falling of their breathing. An older, bearded  man, sitting in a folding chair, stared at her silently. She felt an uncertain feeling—was it shame  at her own nakedness? But she concluded that perhaps he was her god, her creator. Unable to make any sound of her own, she danced her slowly diminishing dance, praying he, the almighty,  would appreciate her reverence. They stared at each other a long while. In time, he labored to  rise, and hobbled over to a pile of tools. The fire watched her master and savior pick up—what  was it, a gift?—a spade and a metal bucket. She admired him longingly as he approached her.  Throwing up her flame as well and as high as she could muster, she prepared herself to welcome  his gifts. The man stood over her a moment, then dug the spade into the bucket of cold sand.