Our Autumn Nights

Our fire glows after we set up the tent.

Smoke curls up the air like our spit drifted down

When we spat into the Lake at the pier.

It's dying down. Now listen, look, and hear.

Hear the last embers sizzle, pop, and crack,

Crack like the helmet to hip, black on brown,

From the high school football game, the QB sack,

The foghorn that surprised us when they scored,

Because we'd never watched the Orioles before;

We'd never crossed the bridge out by St. Jo;

We'd never shared a real banana split;

We'd never thought that we would never know

The camp we'd sleep at, tent, and make our fire—

Our fire—our fire, whose curling smoke grows higher,

Higher into the trees whose leaves enclose the stars

So that they look like twinkling pairs of eyes

That watch us from the dark October skies,

Like angels knowing better far than us

The places ought our autumn nights be spent.

J. H. Waldvogel