First a berry stain on your pine needled sole and you just say, "look at the fire I made." It's a quick death, a campfired moth. We can't rescue him, the moth and the fire already tell their tale. Ash so light, wings disappear flying, dying again toward the canopy. "The crescent moon is an illusion,” you say, “The meteors were last night; you were so wrong.” Tomorrow our tent will be wet. Why did we pay for firewood? Our site has some shade, mulberry trees whispering "please shake us we need to let things go."