driftwood

It was warm there by the fire
though the smoke moved forever in my direction
fire is a verb, I thought, not a noun.
Alive it dances, unsustainable in its dance
little sparks fleeing for the night sky
disappearing into darkness
and from the darkness, a hand.
It picked me up
and placed me down
carefully
the last piece in the puzzle.
I screamed at first
then began to glow a fierce sunset orange
with my brothers and sisters,
sending little sparks into the night sky.