The making

Why do I smile when I see the sun shine through these maple trees..is it not the same sun, as I had known before? Why then-looking up at the tree branches framed against an azure sky, I cannot help but sigh and smile once again..Am I losing my mind..or finding it? Stepping inside the sugar shack bathed in a fog of white, a scent so delicate and yet so sweet embraces me for a few seconds..and then lets out a sigh as it drifts overhead passed the openings into the sky. The scent lingers on till the furnace is opened a gush of heat streams out, with it an orange glow. Mesmerized by the pulsing dance of the embers, it is hard not to believe they are alive. To the imagination the furnace is an ever hungry beast, devouring wood, not satisfied till it leaves sweat dripping from the one who feeds it. Thick leather gloves and apron protect the one who would try and tame it, for at times the wood rushes out, and needs to be driven back inside while still on fire...it is a dance of precision and timing, to make maple syrup..Stepping outside I am lulled by the stars, with them one cannot but help feel at peace, they are so many and you are just one..