The Campfire’s Circle

The evening air was crisp, swept with hints of woodsmoke and the distant tang of earth cooling after sunset. I made my way to a clearing where friends had gathered, a circle of stones around a campfire. The flames tossed soft shadows on backpacks and boots, and above, the trees wore crowns of amber and russet.

We passed mugs of spiced tea, steam curling up in the lamp-lit dark. Someone tossed a handful of dry leaves onto the fire, watching them flare and vanish in embers. Stories spun around – echoes of old autumns, of pumpkin harvests and midnight hikes, mischievous crows and pumpkin-patch mysteries. Laughter rose and joined the wind, which tiptoed through the branches nearby.

As the fire settled down, an elder told a tale of the scarecrow and the crow – how their friendship grew among the falling leaves, a promise that even as seasons turned cold, warmth lingered between those who watched over the fields together. A hush fell. The forest listened.

Later, as people drifted away, I stayed by the last glowing coals. The night pressed close, gentle and thoughtful. I remembered how the campfire not only warmed our hands, but stitched memories across the circle – connections as fleeting and bright as falling leaves. Beneath the stars, I understood: autumn’s gift is the way even the shortest moments glow richly before they vanish, lighting the heart against approaching winter.