After all, it is a hot day, and the backyard is private enough to hide a pasty-skinned, overweight specimen of once-virile manhood.
I have lots of sticks and limbs that need to go into the fire pit. So I build my fire and sit like a dirty, shirtless caveman and watch the tendrils of smoke emerge for a moment of inspection and drift away through the greening canopy.
The trees breathe in the souls of their fallen members, watching me, malevolent. So I put my shirt back on. No need to antagonize them further.