Dick Johnson CAMPFIRE God was not born in the sky, but here at night, in the orange constancy of these coals, never lived in the cerebral blue, in the rainbow so many spines were forced erect to pierce, vainly,   but was raised with the firemakers, went away to new homes with their children, and with their children, and with their children, every generation that made light in the dark,   stayed with them, till fire grew to ruin nothing made of man could live in, went out, back to older places, like this one in these nighted hills; is here now: in the embers. Look. Copyright © 2004 by Dick Johnson. All rights reserved. "Campfire" was previously published in The Manzanita Quarterly.