fl ashes away above the black tip
of the hill behind Lion Camp.
No one else here, so cold.
Taking my old GI blanket I step into the open
and stand wrapped in my own warmth, like a Bedouin
or an Arapaho. Not a sound. No insect,
nighthawk, or owl, the stream so low
it runs without noise
among the dry boulders. I hear my breathing.
What a good garment a blanket was in the old days
for speculative thought, and personal dignity,
arms not free for work, or love, or fi ghting.
But I've come away with too much
on my mind, and like none of it,
and can only hold it
like a man standing carefully with an armload
so unstable he can't put it down.