Scribblings while camping

by MW Cook

The delicate stillness of the highest leaves
and the shimmer of the air above the fire.
The washed out blue of the sky
and the two raccoons tight against the tree trunk
staring as I pass.
The crow screams in midflight
While the sun slowly scales the trees
just because I want them to.

My little fire
dead
in the light of the sun.

Sunlight
stretching through the twisted branches
to set the smoke aflame.

The scissors are obviously of good quality, though sluggish because of leftover grime and a splash of blood.  Sharp and halting.  You wonder how they would sound after a quick cleaning.