We had a fire here tonight.
Not a bad fire, a piled-up-brush-on-purpose fire, a fire that - despite the intermittent drizzle - hissed and crackled and smoked and was hugely satisfying to the kids, who were entranced with the way it chose that log instead of that one, and that brush over here instead of there.
Then the rain cleared for a moment and a rainbow appeared. R took to running full tilt down the meadow, open-armed joyous to be outside and feel the breeze on her skin, and C stood rapt and very close to Bear, listening to how he should be careful but not afraid, cautious but not scared, and I could see him soaking in the new information.
Dusk fell, and the world went muzzy and dark. We pointed out the moon overhead, watched the dark-blue clouds scud by, and listened to the peepers out back. Their faces washed in the colors of the fire as they gorged on (half-burnt) hot dogs and (blackened) marshmallows and had a fabulous time.
Remember being outdoors at night when the world seemed just strange enough to thrill and the fire snapped and popped and everything smelt different and alive?
Now I do too.