In the glow of low fire
fueled by oak and hickory,
four men sit between flame and shadow
less than a mile north of the Arkansas River,
sipping bourbon and beer
and sharing the nearness of autumn night.

They speak in greater depth than ordinary conversation,
having chosen discussion of things that matter—
in this world and in the one to come.

“What things are worth dying for?”
“What guides your life?”
“What have you learned since last we met?”
“What are our ‘God-given rights?’”

And a dozen other questions and topics
that emerge in an extended conversation
both focused and meandering about the threads
of meaning and being beneath the Milky Way.

A few thin clouds,
high and white,
drift above the cedars and oaks,
hickory and ash.

At times,
one or two stand
near the steel circle
that bounds the flames and coals,
feeling the warm glow,
watching the curling wafts of red and orange
that peel away the bark
and feed on the heartwood
grown and formed by decades of slow growth
and constantly adapting to the storms and seasons
that have formed them.

Their shadows stretch
into the woods behind them,
mingling into darker shapes.

They talk late into the night,
sometimes somber in the nearness of loss and pain,
sometimes laughing loudly at improvised humor,
but always receiving more than they give.

They are here not for proving themselves right
and others wrong,
but for the gain of knowing and being known,
to take measure of their own thoughts
against thoughtful response.

Iron sharpening iron
in the forge of a deeper fire
than what burns before them,
searching for some seam of light
that cuts briefly through the dark glass
and keeping the nearness of the flaming Spirit
between themselves and the howling of the world.


H. Arnett
10/21/2025