by David M. Schulz
Poverty, tenacity, but camping
brought us to the place where we live today.
Cutting oak and manzanita, fishing
on the beach, hunting in the Trinities,
harvesting the peach that took years to grow,
these things and more come from early life near
water, mountain lions and their cubs, corn
in rows, bass from a spring-fed pond, herons
flying low through morning fog on the walk
to the bus stop past rattlesnakes and ducks,
eagles nesting in the old chicken coop.
Once, the neighbor’s pigs breached our barbed wire fence,
charged up the ravine, ravaged the garden,
then left. We moved again to find new homes
near mountain streams, cool with moss and full of
fish to catch and eat after frying in
the cast-iron pan that my dad’s grandma had
used to fry okra and zucchini rounds
dipped in batter while kids played in the dirt.
So, camping, always camping, was what called
us deeper, higher into clouded woods.
The trail opened into a good spot, flat
with lots of trees, water flowing all year
round, and summer’s sound of bees. We pounded
stakes, marked our boundaries, and set to cutting
winter’s wood. While planning next year’s garden,
frost still coats the lawn. And if new campers
come and settle near, we’ve still got mountain
views, morning dew, a yard with birds and deer.
photo credit: LXS Photography, Unsplash
David M. Schulz writes poetry, essays, and fiction from the northeastern corner of California.