Brightsands 2007
by Ruth Bjorkman
Some say that the camp wakes early
But I say ‘tis only at night
When the rain sweeps down the canvas
Generator running for light
Carhartts n shirts on nails line walls
Boots n socks hung around the stove
Yet t’aint the rotten clothes I smell
But the sweet warmth of jackpine smoke
Soft voices flicker back and forth
A guitar is pulled from its case
A low Hank voice sings ‘Way Up North’
Cowboy chords set a lazy pace
Chairs skid across the plywood floor
And someone stokes the dying fire
They’ve worked their day and need no more
To prove them worthy of their hire
There is no better way to sleep
No ale nor cigar duplicates
Crawling to bed tired and beat
Tho it’s three quarters past eight***
Now this is for them selfish ones
Who believe they need ‘time for me’
Watching them bathe would be great fun
In icy water on their knees
Sure they’d trek on manicured trails
With Nalgene bottles on their hips
A single hand grip on the rails
Think ‘this is the life’ between sips
But would they wear duct taped Vikings
Through bogs, blow-down infested hills
On top, all the while claim staking
I would think the chance next to nil
Yet somehow these men can do it
Even some choice women as well
Willingly put all into it
With not one curse of heav’n or hell
And their reward lies at the end
When the compass is put away
With food set out and a word said
Making ready for the next day
Then they fall to a lazy style
Retreating at last to their cots
They trade stories of the tough miles
The war wounds and sights they've caught
Breakfast is ate at six-thirty
When the sun sheds its waking light
Tis true that the camp wakes early
But only comes alive at night
by Ruth Bjorkman
Some say that the camp wakes early
But I say ‘tis only at night
When the rain sweeps down the canvas
Generator running for light
Carhartts n shirts on nails line walls
Boots n socks hung around the stove
Yet t’aint the rotten clothes I smell
But the sweet warmth of jackpine smoke
Soft voices flicker back and forth
A guitar is pulled from its case
A low Hank voice sings ‘Way Up North’
Cowboy chords set a lazy pace
Chairs skid across the plywood floor
And someone stokes the dying fire
They’ve worked their day and need no more
To prove them worthy of their hire
There is no better way to sleep
No ale nor cigar duplicates
Crawling to bed tired and beat
Tho it’s three quarters past eight***
Now this is for them selfish ones
Who believe they need ‘time for me’
Watching them bathe would be great fun
In icy water on their knees
Sure they’d trek on manicured trails
With Nalgene bottles on their hips
A single hand grip on the rails
Think ‘this is the life’ between sips
But would they wear duct taped Vikings
Through bogs, blow-down infested hills
On top, all the while claim staking
I would think the chance next to nil
Yet somehow these men can do it
Even some choice women as well
Willingly put all into it
With not one curse of heav’n or hell
And their reward lies at the end
When the compass is put away
With food set out and a word said
Making ready for the next day
Then they fall to a lazy style
Retreating at last to their cots
They trade stories of the tough miles
The war wounds and sights they've caught
Breakfast is ate at six-thirty
When the sun sheds its waking light
Tis true that the camp wakes early
But only comes alive at night
