Again, out in these silent hills in winter. Burning hedge sticks and a bit of prairie grass and willow, smoke rises and dissipates into the gray sky with low clouds.  The wind stirs the flames. I feel the heat on my feet. A small fire, but just enough to warm me on a cold January day.  I’m thinking ancient times, people of ancient times looking at these same hills I look at now, sitting on this same rock I sit on now. I look up through thorny branches to a whitish gray cloudy sky, smoke from the fire in my eye, an ancient activity, making a fire and I wonder, will there come a time when my time will be considered ancient? Fire dying out now, I’m letting it go out, turns into a small pile of ash among the rocks, as will I, in my time.