The warm flames flicker, pairing with the sun,

to give the first light of morning. My father

perches on a trunk, extending his hand

like a branch, to hold a rusted pot to the fire.

His blue eyes alight with the first colors

of morning, painting the sky hues of orange 

and red. Condensed breath curls from his lips. Set

in a face worn with years as the rings of

a tree. Ripples and wrinkles of time telling

the story of years spent laughing and smiling.

The pot crackles as the first bubbles break

the surface. My father calmly stands, his

calloused grip squeezing like a vice on the 

hot pot. The water clouds with plumes of insta-coffee 

as it stretches to the edges.

He smiles. His face radiating a warm heat

of love, enough to match the fire, as he sits. 

A bird chirps. A deer rustles the underbrush.

The sun crowns the top of the mountain with light. 

My father’s form lackadaisical as 

his own movie unfolds before him.

My young eyes watch through mosquito net.

What more do I need than this?