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