Zorba: Making
Camp
Ridges rise steeply
behind trees on either side
of MacKenzie’s South Fork where
Bill and Janet took you and me camping.
First off you dug a hole
too big for burying anything
underneath an enormous fallen tree.
We laughed at the fury of your campaign.
They set up the tent
then he hiked up-river to fish
and she stayed camped while you-and-I
walked downstream (I can’t remember why).
Canyon sun sets fast.
This one died quickly, dusk to
inky pitch, robbing rocks and roots
and riverbanks of all but their ability to hurt.
I panicked but your clinking
dog-tags beaconed as you “stay!”-ed
when I called and crawled to you through
brambled tunnel-paths perfect for your height.
At camp we “Good dog!”-ed
your devotion and natural good sense.
Later we saw from our rain-soaked tent that
your tree-capped hole was dry and just your size.