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Who Told the Moon

Clouds or not. This tent marks the clearing. 
Corners stitched together make honeycomb cocoon. 
Someone crawled out, solitary, first to assemble breakfast.


Bacon and berries and bread drenched in batter.
Someone gathered lost shoes. Arranged palm-sized rocks.
Shuffled canvas chairs to circle


the fire pit still smoking, to awaken day's amphitheater.
Brothers paired for strumming. Cousins who linger in nap tents 
to talk, stretching.


Redwood trees and rock river quietly flatter silver banks.
Kayaks of fathers. Monarchs, arching, glide. Someone stitched
these burgundy seams. Who told the moon


to greet me? When I crawled out, sleepless,
no longer lonely.

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