Poems by Richard Spillman
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Spring Camp
by Richard Spillman
From Canary Spring 2018
Richard lives in Hurricane, West Virginia, halfway up a steep hill. Deer negotiate it nicely, stopping by on their way up or down to eat his flowers and bushes and the bark off his trees. The beauties there are quiet—not the sort people drive miles to see – but it’s lovely to return to: lots of woods and small streams.
We hang the food but forget the Tupperware.
After all, the brownies are gone.
That night we wake to a grizzly cracking plastic,
looking, as we sometimes do,
for pleasure in the stale air of used things.
Mike tosses his canteen against a rock,
and the bear sways closer,
looking over invisible glasses
at the bright grubs moon-bleached bags
make of our cocooned bodies.
He sniffs the canteen then golfs it back
and shambles to the creek to drink.
Later a herd of mule deer whisper through,
our scent no deterrent,
and forage leavings we cannot see.
Tails twirling they drop scat in unison,
then pick their way between our silent forms
and into the moonless woods.
© Richard Spillman