The mosquitos are like rain, drunk rain, drunk on slow
blood. The sun is like a Summer friend. Here and gone.

Tired on the screen porch, I am pictures stuck in plastic sheets
on harvest nights. Rafting the Nemekagon, portaging on Lake Migisi,
camping in trees, canoeing the Brule, hiking the continental divide.

I have other pictures, undeveloped, of staying too long on the ends
of docks, unwilling for the day the to end. Of falling down with a wet
and heavy back, unable to stitch another hour to the disappearing day.

Pictures of lighting Coleman mantles, crawling under cracked stone
bridges, wading, shaving in rivers, gathering wood, lashing poles,
soaping the kettle, blowing on birch bark beginnings of fires, endings.

The neighbor’s bug zapper calls out in alarm.
Amused, I hit the snooze bar one more time.

Spiders in the corners of the tent.
Spiders under loose bark.
Spiders in dry shoes.
Spiders in hair.
Spiders.