We stumbled upon a clearing,
trash heaped in harmony, a fort of sorts.
A soaked tent, a broken grill, a wheelbarrow.
Plywood lines the sogged forest floor.
Messages bless the rubbish.
“Here lies the philosopher’s chair.
Sit in silence, speak and be heard”
You unknowingly assume the role.
“We were guided here by the spirit”
Voices echo near, unaware
of this suburban mirage,
basked in fleeting winter light
The naked silhouettes eavesdrop,
leaning to hear our whispers
over squirrels, frantic amid
one last hopeless binge.
Now, under cover of darkness,
etching a new verse
in the last pink glow,
we stumble back to the brush.