Like wind

On a triangle of sand, extending up the Selway River from the mouth of Three Links Creek, we settle one-by-one near the fire.  It is late afternoon.  Smoke rises from the one log left through the afternoon in the stone fire ring.  Ray saws a drift log into thirds.  He grabs a branch of pine and saws-off a few finger-like branches.  He puts the pine fingers along the length of the smoking log.  He adds the drift log thirds.  New smoke rises and twists.  “You’re getting smoked-out in that nice perfect spot,” Ray says to me.  I arrived first at the beach and settled into a spot with a stone backrest where I could extend my legs to the fire.  The smoke tucks back into wind from upstream, allowing me to open my eyes.  New wind gusts upstream, blowing back smoke that fills Ray’s face.  I go to the woodpile, break sticks, and pile them on the new flame.  The flame rises, the smoke goes.  The sun, too, begins to go.  The hill opposite us is half lit by sun.  Aspen leaves hold yellow light against the infiltration of darkness.  With the darkness, we share whiskey, chocolate, and words.  We share the wind. It blows upriver on the edge of a new front. “In weather reports, news of the wind always gets my attention,” Ray says. “I like wind,” he says.