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Untitled MAG

By Anonymous

Cold icy breezes,
Sending clouds to cover the sun,
I can hear the echoing call of the loon,
And the day is near to done,
Campfire smells linger in the air,
As the laughter circles around,
A stick stirs the reddened embers,
While hiking boots scuffle the ground,
All campers are silent as they listen,
To the majestic song of the loon,
The wildlife scatters to brush homes,
Watching the sun fall asleep to its tune,
Faces reflect in the fire’s eerie dance,
The flames licking against wood,
Red dark as crimson and gold,
Likely to escape if they could,
Tent zippers open and close,
And all the campers lay down their heads,
Soon the day will come with adventure,
But for now the camp’s gone to bed.

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