The camp smoke is thick
with the wet timber we collected.
It seeps into skin & clothes
& tent & food;
the fire's breath follows me
as I stoke the embers,
add crackling brush
to the flaming teepee—
this smoke so different from
the inhale/exhale of pale grey breath
filling the bowling alleys
& dive bars back in the city.
The birch bark & oak limbs crackle,
exhaling their own white clouds,
consuming my body,
filling my lungs.
Coughing, I turn my head
to the left & mutter:
"I hate white rabbits."
The mystical phrase of camp lore
guides the smoke against the breeze
& the flames are again my friends.
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