one more new years post 8V
There are fireworks in the distance, exploding out over a far off city, they flicker and blink like tiny stars in shades of red and orange. There is true fire here on this hill above the forest. Fed by a faint and constant wind, it writhes through the wood of this tree, each spark a leaf on bare limbs. It is a cleansing sacrifice to the old year. The flames grow and snap in the cold air, wild, but strangely contained, and all that surrounds its ring of warmth thrums with love and respect for the ritual before them.
The boy who stands watch is not a being of fire, but he is in control here, his song is the prayer, his soul is the shell that both feeds and contains, his affinity that speaks to the cold perennial thing. In the crimson glow of the jubilation, the first night of one, the first morn of another, the circle is one of breathless expectation and brightness. Even the distant stars are witness.