Campfire

After the embers and coals,
the forest resumes —
soft hoof on a twig, a breath of loons,
the looming lure of owls
calling mice to the talon —
the rush and the snag,
the crossing over.
A river crumbles.

Damp musk and ash cling
to our blind skin,
and our ears, our ears turn
to each black taunt just
beyond the clearing,
our frailty deep in the lungs
of the mountainside.

Image: Casey Horner on Unsplash

6 thoughts on “Campfire

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  1. Devon, exceptional meter and flow to this finely penned poem… I especially like:

    Damp musk and ash cling 
to our blind skin, 
and our ears, our ears turn 
to each black taunt just 
beyond the clearing, 
our frailty deep in the lungs 
of the mountainside.

    Your brilliance shines, my friend.

    Liked by 1 person

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