Someone woke up this morning and said, “It’s a fine day for a fire.”

Perhaps it’s the rain. Or, the drop from 86 to 81 degrees. I suppose this is chilly for Brooklyn in July.

I can’t imagine why anyone would be lighting their wood-burning stove today. But they did. And, it’s magnificent.

Is it wrong that smoke makes me nostalgic for California? Given the current drought situation it seems macabre to be daydreaming about such things. But, I can’t help it.

My sweatshirt is soaking up the the oak’s insides, the sap sizzling and popping, creating a fountain of bright orange ember. We’re sipping Makers and staring into the sun’s reflection in the moon. Stars. So many stars. And darkness. It’s so damn bright in New York.

I’m roasting marshmallows and drinking bloody beers at 9am. Baking potatoes, canned beans, sausages, whose idea was it to bring the instant coffee? I love you. Waking with the sun. The sensation of heat as a being, an entity, trapped inside your tent, pushing against your ears, squeezing your thighs until your eyes are forced open. The sound of the ocean in the morning. Constant, magnetic, totally, totally scary. I mean, the ocean is gorgeous and hypnotizing and totally terrifying, right? I find the warm sand to be a perfect place to enjoy that majestic beast.

All this in one breath.

Thanks for the smoke, Brooklyn.