She admits it:
She’s awake.
Thank you, thank you for the last stars.
Unzipping herself from her bag,
Then her tent.
Lugging herself,
Adjusting into daylight,
She walks
In her socks
Through the dead leaves
And hard acorns,
Plunging through the dry surfaces
And cracking the smooth shells.
The early-rising faces
Exaggerated with puffiness
Have negotiated a morning campfire
And simmered up
Just water.
Because someone forgot the tea bags.
 
On a hike
Up the mountain of lushness and dirt,
Where the green wrings out the moisture from the pale brown.
All marching, marching
Craving an ice cold lake in which to jump.
The summit!
But it’s only halfway.
Suddenly the trip transforms
Into weariness.
And the birds see the sweat soaking through her shirt.
 
At night, they all swarm
Around the campfire,
Her friends around her
Singing the songs of their childhood summers.
She can’t admit it:
She’s drifting to sleep,
Though she tries to hold on to the day.