You sit around a fire. Loudly they speak, a language known once. You catch the intonations. You know the words, but the order comes out jagged and disheveled when spoken. The shadows laugh and dance, they are not strangers.
A brush of affection is given, and taken, a splash. You understand the notes, the intonations. They sing now, the strangers. The melody is known but the words have since been lost. You hum, but the notes discordant sit onto a gaze, as the shadows stop and stare.
Interloper.
The wind speaks the word. It sits on the tongues of the shadows unknowingly, subconsciously. The wind shifts, the smoke rushing towards your lungs. It's..