by Spencer Connell
The wind is strong enough
to parasail with this tent.
But instead, I sit and exhale
as if smoking, and watch the tarp
rise and fall at rhythm with my stomach.
Twice I have refolded my jacket
pillow, following the creases as if they were
plot lines in a novel, while the plants blow
from left to right. The wind is
strong enough to pull the stakes from the earth
and toss them across the lake, rising
and falling like a feather never touching
It was a quick thing, the storm
coming over the sawtooth tree-
line, then across the lake and turning
its top to white in a chalk line
advancing to me.
An ant crawls
through the tent holding a crumb
of my bread and brie so large
he stumbles multiple times,
as if drunk. The wind dies
and I go back to blowing the tarp
and watch as the rain that has settled
finds a path back to the ground and to me.