We sleep in the most shaded
corner of the campsite,
we sleep -
before seven’s become eight,
most people have risen,
undertaken their morning rituals
and left to make their days.
We have no plans, no structure,
no timeline to adhere to,
we wake when our bodies
have taken the rest they need
(we were the last awake, too,
howling around the campfire).
Dreams nor goals even stir us,
the day stretches safely into the forever-eve,
night becoming day long after the clock would say so.
I enter the day quite before them,
spilling words and coffee around the campsite,
already strewn with relics of the night before
and dewey from the shadow of the mountain.
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