Camp

It was just past dawn
when my wee
little legs wiggled
down out of bed.
No taller than the
countertops,
I let myself
out to greet the
morning dew
in bare feet and
stained pajamas.
I can still smell
the mist that dripped
from the walnut trees.
It smelled like freedom
as I climbed up on
top of the picnic table.
Spoon in hand,
I found the jar
of fruit punch powder
and ate it for breakfast
as my folks slept
in our Apache
hard-side camper.
Birds squawkin
coals smokin
and my six year old self
hopped up on sugar
whittling sticks with
my Daddy's pocket knife
I found on the table.
No one watched me,
no one cared if I dared,
and it didn't matter.
No one died.
No one went to jail.
I peed in the grass
because the outhouse
had spiders.
I poked through the
hot coals and melted
my grubby rubber soles
on the fire rim,
utterly unsupervised.
When Mom awoke,
she sent me to the
water pump
with the bucket that
she subsequently would
use to scrub me up.
I returned, water sloshin
with my pajama pockets
full of rocks and road toads.
Camp life was glorious.