Take the Days You Have
I should feel guilty
that I drove all this way,
to fish, and yet I don’t.
Camp is lovely, quiet, still
except for the rattle of
chipmunks chasing through
the brush and downed trees--
a few twittering birds--
the night’s raccoon investigation--
the calls of the night bird’s solitary songs--
a hazy bright day surrounded
in muted greens of every hue--
the road out — the road in--
buzzing insects down low
and high in the trees.
I should feel guilty
that I took the time
to make a batch of Mom’s biscuits
—and eating two tossed the
remainder to the chipmunks--
and sit here at the picnic table
listening to the murmuring bass
and occasional higher tones
coming from the campsite
two down the way--
the distant and unique closing
and opening of the outhouse doors--
a passing jet lost in miles of white
scattering jet sounds down across
a geography in which
it will never land.
The morning was misty
and the trees dripped
their moisture onto
the ground and tapped
lightly on the tent--
always deceiving me into
thinking it must be raining,
but the sun will no doubt
break through the cover
down to the forest floor
as the day turns to afternoon light
dappling into the
very depths of the darkest woods.
I should feel guilty
but the coffee is still warm
from breakfast--
the light breeze makes
the humid air
feel a bit cooler.
Sylvania Wilderness
July 23, 2007
Up North Series
©2007 Take the Time You Have — Joseph W. Yarbrough
Reproduction prohibited without written permission.
that I drove all this way,
to fish, and yet I don’t.
Camp is lovely, quiet, still
except for the rattle of
chipmunks chasing through
the brush and downed trees--
a few twittering birds--
the night’s raccoon investigation--
the calls of the night bird’s solitary songs--
a hazy bright day surrounded
in muted greens of every hue--
the road out — the road in--
buzzing insects down low
and high in the trees.
I should feel guilty
that I took the time
to make a batch of Mom’s biscuits
—and eating two tossed the
remainder to the chipmunks--
and sit here at the picnic table
listening to the murmuring bass
and occasional higher tones
coming from the campsite
two down the way--
the distant and unique closing
and opening of the outhouse doors--
a passing jet lost in miles of white
scattering jet sounds down across
a geography in which
it will never land.
The morning was misty
and the trees dripped
their moisture onto
the ground and tapped
lightly on the tent--
always deceiving me into
thinking it must be raining,
but the sun will no doubt
break through the cover
down to the forest floor
as the day turns to afternoon light
dappling into the
very depths of the darkest woods.
I should feel guilty
but the coffee is still warm
from breakfast--
the light breeze makes
the humid air
feel a bit cooler.
Sylvania Wilderness
July 23, 2007
Up North Series
©2007 Take the Time You Have — Joseph W. Yarbrough
Reproduction prohibited without written permission.