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© Jane Cassidy

Fire-starting is an art of practice and of luck.
Myself, when watched, a long, long time I take
And cut my finger near in two
But then, when I am not in view
Two strikes is all I need, a fire to make.

There's some whose tinder's dry as toast, their flint is sharp and new
With char cloth just as fine as one can make
Who leave it all inside their kit
And don't know what to do with it
But not to practice is their one mistake.

There's some who get their tinder damp, their nest won't take a light
No matter how persistently they blow,
And though the char cloth glows so bright
And proves that they have struck a light,
It doesn't do a thing to light their tow.

Sometimes when a spark is struck it catches on right quick
And you, not realizing that it's caught
Keep striking at the flint and then
You drop it and the tinder when
You notice that your finger's mighty hot.

There's some who strike a light one time and think that that was luck
And never will they catch a spark again.
They spend all their time feeding fire
No matter what their true desire
For fear the flame will go out in the rain.

He struck a spark when first they met, and then the second strike
Caught fire on the char cloth, there's no doubt.
So tell me as that fire glows
Can they cook on it as it grows,
Or merely burn a string and stomp it out?

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