I’m trying to set up this tent in
the dark.
Not city dark,
Not country dark,
Wilderness Dark.

I’m trying
to line these wiggling
poles up with the tent seams.
I’m trying
to hold this flashlight between
my cheek and shoulder.
I’m trying
to get this impossible
rain tarp in place.

I’m trying to be happy and patient.

I’ve tied my children to trees.
They’re calling me
to untie them
so they can help.

I’m trying to do this myself, and I will.

It’s a good thing I tied them
Up Tight
so if they fall asleep they
Won’t
Fall
Over.

I’m trying to
drive these anchors into rocks,
or some close stony relatives
and ignore the name Rex just called Syd.

I’m trying to fling our food
over this branch, fifteen feet
above our heads so the bears
don’t eat Kate for breakfast.

I’m trying to set up this camp
so I can untie my children
and lead them straight
to the tent and zip them in.

I’m trying to
put the sleeping bags on places without roots or rocks
and I’ve done so for everyone but me.

We sleep. They sleep. I try.

I awake.
My children are outside, unroped, in the light.
Something big is going on.
I try to listen. I cannot hear words.
Hushed tones of astonishment,
admiration. A large splash.
Whoops and hollers.

I try to figure out
why the ranger didn’t tell me
there was a drop


off, 60 feet,
into the lake
on the border
of my campsite.

I try to figure out
how I set up the tent
five feet from the edge
and didn’t fall in.

I try not to think of how
I tied my three children to trees
On
the
edge


of a cliff.