Fiery tongues crept across the thick mat of dead grass, licking away all the dry stems and leaves. Like a battle front, the line moved roughly in unison with no possible retreat. Footsteps of flame crackled and snapped. The commander stood surveying his scorching troops, leaning on a shovel.

The crisp air was filled with the richness of early spring and wood smoke. Wisps from the invading fire drifted straight up and disappeared against the steel grey sky. The leader had waited for this perfect day to attack last year’s debris of tall grass, weeds, and fallen tree branches. The meandering fire would leave a black, grey, and white patchwork of powder through which new green would sprout. The steep ditch bank would soon look like a newly mown lawn. The muddy fields, the breathless air, and the shovel would ensure no advance of the flames past their allotted targets.

The man in charge was my father, performing his annual spring cleanup of the fence rows bordering our farm. A family day spent gathering twigs into a bonfire, listening to robins, red-winged blackbirds, and the snap of the flames as sap oozed and spattered. A day of adventure for a curious child poking and prodding smouldering ash, tangles of roots, trickling waters, and following frog song like a scientist discovering a new world.

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