By Our Very Presence

July 18 2020

Poke the fire

with a long stick

and watch the flames flare,

a shower of sparks

pour-off in the wind.

Faces flicker red

in the radiant glare,

eyes brightly stare

fixed on the fire.

We gather close

under clear black sky,

our fronts slowly roasting

while our backs are exposed

to the cold and dark.

Until it's finally left to burn itself out,

as cool night air

settles heavily down.

Tents zip shut

someone's started to snore,

a few people talk

in barely audible voices.

Tomorrow

the sun will shine, the lake will beckon,

but for now, bodies rest

burrow-in to stay warm.

While restless minds

go on exploring.

Dreaming dreams we won't remember,

or lying awake in the dead of night

as mosquitoes swarm

and embers die.

But no matter how hard we try

we are clumsy intruders

in whatever there is left of the wild;

by our very presence

by what's left behind.

A circle of rocks

and some charred wood,

the trampled plants

where we walked and stood.

And whatever small scraps

we will overlook

in the controlled chaos of morning.

This began with a simple image: a group of people encircling a fire in the woods at night as a great shower of sparks pours off into the darkness. So I set it down, then called back to some of my experiences of camping. The ending wrote itself. How predictable. What a familiar trope for me: man in nature; man the intruder, who only degrades and destroys.