November 12, 1963--The First
01/31/2005 06:09 a.m.
If there was a plan,
I did not know it;
Cramped, we rode
In old blue “Phenelly”
Until we slid off
Into a snow bank
Somewhere on
Willard Peak Road.

And the snow fell,
And we tramped
And we camped
On a sloppy wet
Wooded edge
Of our wilderness.
My feet were frozen,
And I wheezed.

Terrified, I jolted
Awake to throaty
Snorts and snores;
I had to pee, and
Sandwiched tight
Between other
Bagged boys, I fought
In the blackness.

With naked feet
In icy boots,
I tore open the tent
And ducked out:
The canyon glowed
Blue in moonlight,
An opera of stars
Chorused overhead.

Amid convulsive shivers
I peed frantically
Inches only from the door,
And in a frozen panic,
Grappled back
Into bag, bed, and
Winter survival.
"Why," I asked, "Why?"

I could not sleep;
I could not breathe;
My feet were cold;
Snoring droned on;
But I heard the stars
Beyond the tent,
Beyond the years,
And I hear them still.
I am currently Nostalgic
I am listening to Old wintery voices