Everyday Yeah one-thousand three-hundred and ninety-six

I threw a log today. I did not expect to see it again. The log had been in a pile. Four campers sought a warm institution to fill their night thoughts. A forest was un-born. Yesterday, a woman put her hands into the ground innards of a numb bird and from these trimmings a loaf rose from the pan and the world finally had something to eat with their potatoes. In the morning I found the leftovers of three-foot wide forest. A family of campers the previous night had found the yard of the forest to be disappointing. A child wrote, “S’mores” on one of the trees and they were all chopped down and piled in the corner while papa tried to make a fire in another corner. A child asked his father if he would make the fire where the rug used to be. The papa was irritated and they left before the fire caught. The memory of a child’s handwriting on the branches washed out in the morning showers. I had my pick of the logs. I did not choose the biggest log. My glasses fell off once while I was lifting a log bigger than the log I threw. I set my glasses on a stone in the corner of the old swimming pool where the campsite had dug itself. While I was holding my log a team of afternoon showers filled the swimming pool with flavors of soot and pebbles l I prefer not to eat. I forgot about the glasses. Someone handed me scissors. I pretended to find them in a can atop the refrigerator in the area of the forest where I two slices of leftover meatloaf. I unwrapped plastic covering. I threw my log. It landed in a pool of gravel. I did not get wet.  Disappointment in my log ability hid in the chewing of a plate of something that wasn’t a log.