The day rolls up in a long horizon line, 
moon slips past the eye,
speaks now only in shimmering  
and occasional murmurs caught 
between thick high branches.  

I coax flame from flint and fingers, 
trout soft in the belly,  
bluefish slapped clean, 
arranged like offerings on the grate—  
smoke is absent but everything else speaks:  
crickets in code, breezes with a sly agenda,  
birds gone domestic again,  
raccoons stage their incursions 
with a nibble and a shrug.

You, slack-spined, lean into nylon and canvas,  
watch fat sing in the pan,  
the conversation leaking through our mouths  
like steam through a cracked lid:  
more breath than logic, more hum than dialect.  
Tent flaps gesture like choir hands—unified,  
unable to oppose what’s already unfolding.