On a clay ridge by a water oak
that had sprung up somewhere
around the Revolution we burned
grill cheese sandwiches and heard
owls, summer ducks and water frogs
near Cedar Creek. By the time light
went out the wine was gone and we
lay face to the clouds moving in pitch
night, fire logs not even glowing
anymore, wind up from the bottom
shaking the blue tarp, almost blowing
under our camping pads, pushing
us to cramp together in a thin mass
of arms and nervous breathing.