Ground Level
July 5 2016


Rip-stop nylon, stiff from wear.
Then a dead half-inch
of exhaled air
stoppered-up.
And the thin layer
of miracle fibre
your bag is stuffed with,
between you
and cold uneven ground.
Which has lost much of its loft, 
either clumping-up
or nothing at all.

Where the cool air bottoms out.
Where one ear
is pressed close to earth
listening,
as if privy to her whispers
no one else can hear. 

You are never this alert
on your feather bed
enclosed by 4 rectangular walls,
the trapped air
you’ve breathed already.

A twig snaps, leaves rustle
nocturnal creatures call.
And at the break of day
before even the sun dawns
the songs of squabbling birds
penetrate your dreams;
still groggy with sleep,
a little stiff
from damp rheumatic soil.

You lie on your back, looking up
at fabric sagging with dew,
the light through the trees
infused with chlorophyll.
You yawn, the land breathes;
a  promising breeze,
as warm sun 
stirs the cool layer
sending ripples across the lake.

Before the listless air, August heat
make the tent unbearable.



Anyone who’s canoe-camped will recognize this:  the thin wilderness air mattress, the old sleeping bag you thought had one more trip in it, the thin material that separates “out” from “in”. On a hot night, you’re grateful to be on the ground, where cool air pools. And the absence of noise, the acuteness of sound.