The woods are stinging for glory. Acorns under a starry night. Before midnight, the hickory logs will be used to start another bonfire. The pony pulls on his rope, firmly tied to a post. Somebody has already chopped the firewood. Last night, the brittle ice formed on the pools. Somehow, you turn out some bitter camper’s coffee–you let it boil for awhile in an old iron pot over an open log fire. If you stay in this territory, it will be because this bitter coffee tastes good in your cup after another hour of rain has fallen in it.

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