Sunday, September 30, 2018

A Little Campfire Story (Day 620)

At the bottom of a day’s adventures, 
our flashlight beams lit the undersides
of arching redwood branches, beneath
which we spread our sleeping bags and 
hid our stash of books. 

Well after the moon had set, something 
woke us—a sound, a grunt, a baby’s cry, 
a strangled little moan from the friend
shivering beside me. 

Peeking toward the campfire, I saw only 
an absence of light, a gaping, bear-shaped 
hole. I shushed my friend. We needed to 
remain silent, completely still. And so,
we did, until our silence led us back into 
the landscapes of our dreams. 

Years later, and—aside from a tie-cord 
ripped from the foot of my sleeping bag, 
and a handful of ursine tracks, both 
large and small, that night, like all good 
nights, has retained its mysteries—and I 
wouldn’t have had it any other way.  

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six
Image: MaxPixel

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