Beaver Hill: The Only Time I Forgot My Sleeping Bag

Daylight changes form right in front of me
and I wander in it’s shadows,
shyly sinking into the grassy meadow.
No one likes to admit that they have lost control,
but today I am proudly knee deep
in dirt, hip bones being stalked
by the ground they worship near a camp fire.

Last night’s tents are still up,
men are still drowning their wives in the river
nearby. I feign interest in their life stories,
I am not the favorite child, or cousin,
but I am a goddamn friend.

The leaves are falling in time to the crackling,
hiding in the bushes, talking to the wind.
Loose ties are formed between nature’s wonders.
Each night they reminisce, nostalgia burning
their mouths, their tongues, whole.

I have found no nostalgia in conversation;
I am constantly disappointed by humans,
they have souls the size of dew drops
and I’m a grass stain, a tire swing, a fever.