Glacial Erratic
June 3 2016

The weight of morning dew
makes the fabric sag
even lower.
Condensation drips,
zipper snags, and sticks.

My stiff body
squirms from the tent
like an act of birth,
head, shoulder, trailing leg
through the tight nylon opening.
Wriggling
from the sleeping-bag's clammy warmth
into brisk astringent air.

Crawling on all 4's
until I'm clear.
Into boots that are cold and wet
from the day before.
Into soiled clothes
that stink of smoke
and caked-on sweat.

Then, shivering
to tinder, kindling, wood,
spark, ignition, fire
squatting close.
Until the aroma of boiled coffee, slightly burnt
permeates my senses
as if for the first time.

A new morning
the same as all the others.
And as different as the vista
that spreads out before me,
sipping hot black java
as the sun dawns clear.

Sitting on a smoothly weathered rock
that seems improbable, here;
as if dropped
by some absent-minded giant,

skipping stones

an ice-age ago.

Undisturbed
for 10,000 years
on this gently lapping shore.

There was an article in the paper about the Sobey Arts Awards (2016). The finalists' work was shown. One painting, although slightly abstract, appeared to be of a woman wriggling out of a camping tent (Brenda Draney's "Night Sky"). It reminded me of the morning ritual in my canoe-tripping days, many years ago:  the hardship of cold wet mornings; the brilliance of a new day.

The description is detailed, mundane. But I like the busyness of workaday detail, the sense of habit and practice and ritual, the almost claustrophobic self-absorption. Because it sets up the ending, which abruptly zooms out, and sets this busy hour against the still immensity of time. I think this fits a recurring trope of mine:  the insignificance of  man, contrasted with the grandeur and indifference of nature.