Pine scents, the echo of bird calls, hollow
sound of boots on the plywood floor. The squeak
of the cabin door and crunch of footsteps moving toward the outhouse. Worry
competes with the urge — will
there be spiders? Will someone hear a scream?
Keeping an eye on the spider in the corner, mouth-breathing
to avoid the stink, it’s finally done. Boots
make a hasty retreat from outhouse, clomp
back into rustic safety. Dusk
edges into night followed by
The soft swoosh of gas lanterns. Savory
Camp food aromas waft from the kitchen, the pop
Of grease and spices compete for attention. Iron stove
and pump handle sink match the
warped and slanted floor. The shotgun
leans against the frame, a young
shoulder bruised from its recoil.
Bears prowl at night. So much
for the outhouse in the dark.
— Ann Chiappetta