18 Notes on 44 Hours Camping
Tent up.
Campfire crackling.
Lake lapping.
Boats burbling.
Camp kids playing.
Sun setting.
Toke settling.
So quiet it’s noisy,
specially cross water,
each human hoot and holler
heard from lake and boat and shore.
The sweat heat whistle of moisture
being forced from wood
by flame.
The rain runs through the dawn
tree by tree by treetop,
we sit dry beneath.
High heat, low flame,
licking what’s already gone,
Fire’s like water —
slow, fast, liquid, easy, hard, wily, soothing,
fear always near.
Watching fire weave and wisp,
freeing wood to would.
The sparkle through the green
of water lapping sun,
lake licking shore,
breeze in trees,
rush of wet around.
My phone doesn’t know what time it is.
Where are we?
Laughter shriek over buzz and burble boats,
hiss of water escaping wood by fire light,
off-key fan bop from boat hawking country pop.
Sleek slide of wave over water
crystals surfing slice of sunlit sparkle water,
smoke gone with moon.
The fly works for its share of the pie
just like you and I.
Watching fire for 42 hours
I see that which does not heed its husk, burns,
and hard edges, splinters, bark,
anything stands out,
calls for spark,
burns first,
lights the dark.
The clever keep their mouth shut.
This is the great Wisdom of the Wood,
Stick with the grain, or poof — you’re ash.
Got a couple ants on me.
I burned their stick.
Wonder how that looks to them?
Lake lap dance of sound and light on shore,
ritual of burning wild wood and weed.
Our air mattress leaks,
we sink deeper in sleep.
Stop at the Karma Cafe on the way back
but it’s too late to eat.
– Smith, 7.27.2015
