Camping Recollected

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It's a different point of view;
the ferns – jade veined,
the trails of lake snails lettering muck,
the camp-stove contrails,
the iron lids over simmering light.
It's a different brand of second sight;
the balance between air exhaled and inhaled, as bats skim
over pupil dark woods, and hurtle and trill and just clear the
sheen of water.

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The tent walls billow inward, shudder; are permeated with dampness,
labrador tea scents, rustlings
of wild flag, and marsh five finger, and
queen anne's lace.
The grain of the canvas is shot through with castles
and webs and constellations; the
grain of the split wood coils into rough drawn
faces and startled jays; the ash drops like a hidden city
between the granite fire ring and
the infinite spinning
of space.
We crouch near the blaze,
waiting for the water in the speckled kettle to boil,
flickering – mysterious – indifferent to the soot on our fingertips.