The bonfires of Prague filled the air with the nose-tickling redolence of smoke. Kampa Island--wedged rather majestically in the already majestic Vltava River—wore the light of a large bonfire like the jewel centering some strange crown. The acrobatic twirl of flames traced patterns in the night, and threw the smell of kerosene into quiet negotiation with the softer, sweeter scent of burning wood, burning straw, and the saltier tang of sausage. Kampa Island, the night's Lady of the River, wore smoke like a veil. On the island itself, the smoke was more a feast for the nose, an invisible presence. Flames crackled and exhaled ruddy sparks skyward, and men—two—worked magic with flames. One, perhaps the younger of them, twirled extravagant patterns into the darkness, like some scribe brushing arcane hieroglyphs onto the night. His patterns were complex and chaotic, but their elegance spoke of an underlying order. He focused on his dance, muscles heaving beneath the flesh of his narrow torso like the perfection of oiled, Victorian clockwork. He tamed fire with unthinking grace. He smiled. Music wove its own patterns around him, and for those unfamiliar with the exuberance of the night, it was easy to think that the music is what impelled his motions. Uncertainty lingers around that point. Is it the music which determined his dance, or did the dance--and the fire--speak quiet signals to the musicians with drums, bagpipes, and hypnotic, shrill flutes carved from the hollowed-out horns of goats? The question is, ultimately, a useless one. It does not matter, because--quite simply music, flame, and flesh formed the most intriguing of triads—a subtle play of various luminosities and aural textures. With fire in the night, there was perfection. And the following day—a day of Maypoles and parties—there were ashes on Kampa Island, and blurred footprints recording the steps of a now-vanished dance. *** This is one of many pictures I took during my own little Beltane celebration within the larger "Witch Burning Night" celebrations here in Prague. The smell of smoke has long vanished from the air, but the memories...ah...those remain, sharply, and vividly. As always, thank you for viewing, reading, and commenting.