Shwash! Shwash! Dry, brown leaves are raked together. The few from the side yard make a small mound, then Shwash! Shwash! Shwash!, the leaves from the front yard and the back yard pile it high. Limbs left over from autumn’s first windstorm and pinecones the squirrels picked over add variety. The mass sits still then a flick of match and the edges come alive. Crack! Splack! Crackle! The old dead color bursts with orange, red, and heat. The flame eats quickly through the easy snack. Grey smoke moves high over the pile blooming yellow and breathes a slow woodsy aftertaste.