“Yo.” He approached slowly with shuffling steps nodding his head at the few men he recognized. They were the ones who stood out among the many sitting on neighborhood stoops or hanging around outside the methadone clinic which was right next to his favorite liquor store.

This slight acquaintance was enough for some to nod back, and a space was made for him at one of the drums. Invited, he moved forward cautiously and stood holding his hands over the fire. “Nice blaze, good body.” He nodded his approval toward the large man who was clearly in charge of the fire.

This fire was fed not by cardboard boxes, discarded magazines or the usual garbage. It was fueled by real wood, some pieces of which still sported nails and bits of plaster. A building had given up a portion of its guts so that these citizens of the streets could stay warm.

In gratitude for the well-maintained fire, the man offered a sip from the flask that he now took from his coat pocket. The fire keeper declined the offer, endearing him even more to his guest. Soon the fire keeper’s attention and the attention of the others standing around the drums became fixed not on their own small fires but on the conflagration that roared in the distance. They had an unobstructed view. The drums and the building that sheltered them stood at the top of a horseshoe that ended seven long blocks away down by the river’s edge.

Screaming in defiance, the fire fled from building to building. A monstrous golden god, it devoured the warehouses in its path and defeated the men who battled it. Glorious and deadly it defied description and held its audience in awe.