Camping


Camping
With the cold air clinging to the corners of the tent,
I stick to my sleeping bag, warm and content,
But silver fish are rising just beyond the hickory grove,
And I’ve been dreaming of pancakes on the hot iron stove,
With blue jays and cardinals turning daybreak into song,
I know it’ll only be a minute before I’ll be along,
At the edges of camp the sun beams chase,
As I go down to the creek to wash my face,
With the crisp cold water stinging my eyes,
I see the world afresh in another new guise.

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