Erecting
               the little tent.

Setting out    a place           
        for water.

The cook stove.
                              Chairs to go round    
                
                 the fire ring.
                     Here,        the
                                      wood
                                      stack.

There,        to sip our coffee.
           There,     to place our shoes.

Even—
                             among the looming
                             lodgepole pines,

                             walls of granite,
                             larch, goldfinch;

                 as we speak
                 in hushes

                 not to interrupt
                 the snowmelt creek;

        where we’ve come to find
        something missing, hidden

        in the cedar smoke,
        needle scent, bird sounds

—still
           we make our little homes.


© by Ryan Warren.
Used with the author’s permission.