Last Night's Fire

On a wind-blown day, late in the afternoon, when sand grains were marching ferociously across the Lake Michigan beach, I came upon this small pile of stacked and charred driftwood.

It was too small to have supported a wild and crazy party, too small for up-to-no-good hoodlums, certainly not boy scouts practicing their campfire skills.

No, this was a fire of romance, burning when the breeze was soft; water lapping gently on the mocha colored sand, but who built it?  Did they come to the beach to share a bottle of wine and watch the moon set over the big lake?  Perhaps just to sit and listen to the gentle night.  Did they come to re-live an old memory?  Young lovers?  Old lovers? 

They didn't stay long enough for the fire to have burned itself out; left no evidence of themselves.  Small.  Quick.  Hurried.  The curious remains, the meaning of the night, the flicker of small flames - lost to all but the drifting sand and the memory of those who came to share precious secrets on the beach.