Breakfast Fires

 

                What is the best thing about campground camping in the fall? The breakfast fire, even in the backyard.

                It was a cool and bright morning, and quiet. No traffic. No sirens. The Cedar Waxwings were flying overhead in a huge flock, settling on the highest branches of the fig tree, coming to the backyard plum to rest, swarming the fruit once again. We could hear their wings and the gossip about meals still to be eaten in the neighborhood above. The chickens held their own conversations as they stretched their wings into the morning sun and pecked at the dried artichoke heads for seeds. Mr Beezhold found the carrots tops I had laid out for him in the asparagus bed after the market on Saturday. The fire sent shimmers of heat into the sky. The sun worked its way across the garden, which is tangled and fading in the cool autumn air.

          

      Down on the ground, Mark and I sat by the fire, warming our toes. I had brought out the New York Times. The cat shifted back and forth from lap to lap, depending on the temperature of the flames. We drank our tea and ate fried potatoes and scrambled eggs with onion, and a slice of toast. Mark brought out a piece of chocolate to finish it off and we reached for the Sunday paper. I added a few more chunks of wood to the fire, but then leaned back to stare into the deep blue sky.