by Jesse Eckerlin
Appalled by the dark
the transients head back home
in their motorboats
Return to perishable dwellings
in the heart of recreation.
While errant gunshots
ring out repeatedly
through the hills,
Limbs no longer calm
we stay and camp on islands
under the stars
Unable to spy safe passage
to trails our forebears trod
with gritty toes and grace.
(By which I mean:
Hissing of Birch Bark Tea in charred pot
Crooked sticks perched above the blazing log.)