She admits it:
she’s awake.
Thank you, thank you for the last stars.
Unzipping herself from her bag
then her tent.
Adjusting into daylight
she lugs herself
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.