The campfire can barely light our faces anymore

and someone has a guitar, playing folk songs

so old our parents used to sing them.

A piece of wood falls,

sending a swarm of sparks into the trees that

somehow don’t catch flame

and we all lie on top of each other, singing.

Despite the summer heat and

the sloppy mound of love and sweat and bug spray,

I could breathe this moment like air.