It really is a nice night for a campfire, regardless of whether any company comes along or not. Not too warm nor cold, a little muggy, with fireflies flickering in the dark. You take a bag of marshmallows, a box of Graham crackers, and a few bars of animal-safe "chocolate" from the kitchen and make your way down to ground level. You pick a spot cleared of low growth and kick some rocks around to form a little campfire circle, then pile up logs and trimmings from one of the orchards. A strike of some flint against a hunk of steel sparks the tinder, and in a few minutes you're nursing a warm, glowing fire to life. You haul a larger log over beside the fire as a seat, and by the time you do, a few consorts and a carapacian have likewise dragged in a seating arrangement. You prop your guitar - the Little Buster - against the log, lay a harmonica next to it, and rummage back out the goodies. Slender twigs make excellent prongs for the marshmallows for you and your little crew, and those toasted blobs of sugar melt the carob pleasantly enough that you can't tell too easily that it's not real chocolate. You while away the time snacking with little silly chatter, talking to the more vocal consorts with their bubbly and raspy voices. You prod the fire and toss another small log and a fistful of kindling on if it ever smoulders too low, and the gathering oohs and aahs at the resulting rush of ember and flame. Finally you lick the carob from your fingertips and pull your guitar back into your lap to bring some music to the gathering. You pluck out pleasant, lively but mellow tunes while your little friends run about, catching fireflies and occasionally trying to eat rhem. A little blue iguana rests his head against your leg, eyes closed in relaxation. You'll probably be out there all night at this rate, just jamming away should any friends arrive.
