As the fire slowly flickers to an end, the conversations of the night are a distant memory. The vociferous crowd that surround the dwindling fire now sit in silence. The older men sit and wait for the next words to be spoken, the next thoughts to be freed. The roaring flames once concealed the men’s faces, now they sit open and vulnerable once again. There is a lot you can tell about a man’s face; his intentions, his regrets, his life. This is how men think, this is how decisions get made. As the men exchange glances, the moon reaches it’s peak, it won’t be much longer now. With each dying ember from the fire, reality inches closer, there is no stopping, cogs in the machine have begun. With every last drop of Mead, with every last crack of the fire, the men hang in silence. The youngest of the men stands, addresses the group with a nod and disappears into the night. The fire is broken, a piece of the circle is missing, incomplete. Time has run out, one by one the men begin to stand. As the last man rose, the rest of the men turn towards one another, at that moment something changed. As the men began to dissipate, some with heads hung low, the youngest of the men returned. As he approached the fire pit the men stop, as if commanded. The man dropped several bundles of wood at the base of the fire pit and softly said, “Why should more men die when we have plenty of wood to burn”. The men return to their seats and continue their trance like stair into the flames, hoping for answers.