
My eyes pop open in the hours before dawn as though a dim voice has spoken plainly into my ear, “Time to get up. Come to the fire.” I swing out of bed and whisper to my wife, Carin, who is still asleep, “I’m going to the fire.” I quietly get dressed, drink ½ a cup of coffee, and head out the door with a medicine bag over my shoulder.
“Come to the fire” is a silent whisper, a gentle call to slip into the woods in the morning stillness.
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