the flames sprouted from the ends of the log as if they were a dissension of the bleeding tree in which the wood was harvested. they danced with brilliance a bright red-orange which reflected just as fantastically outside the boundaries as within. with a pop nothing less than demanding of attentions and among many smaller crackles, the fire spread its destruction further through the log, charring it and marking its power. darkness soon encroached and seemed to zap the fire of its strength. without being tended to, the fire weaned to a mere mix of embers and ash and smoke that swirled up and faded into night. with the stars out and the moon hidden beneath thin clouds, the fire breathed its last breath and then ceased to exist, it's power exhausted and unappreciated.