Unnamed Counts

Dinner flip-flop-flips on the hooks. They climb the bank to their fire drum. Salted, sizzling skins are popped in mouths that grin warm-belly bliss. A mutual moment of plenty before tomorrow’s rumblings. Reading lines by flashlight from second-hand journals is their nightly home entertainment. Laughter stumbles over spoken word, interrupting their recitations with impersonations of celebrities.

Cold fingers share communion in this private camp. Praying over one another’s skin, their joined bodies sing hymnals. Two voices rise and call and hush into exhaustion. Sleeping under rainfall, they do not dream.

A cough and another. Their days tighten into wheezes and fevers. Wrapped up holding each other, they sleep in fits and starts. Sipping pine needle tea and breathing in its steam, their comfort word offerings weaken. They are together alone and scared.

a hike find
ruined artifacts
deserted tent

E. L. Blizzard

Unnamed Counts

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