Camping's Echoes

Honey and butter fills dawn,
The fishing rod dips its toes into the water.

People go fishing;
fishing for luck,
fishing for love,
or fishing for fishy things.

During hikes I go to the deepest tunnel
where the echoes follow,
with dark, scratchy sounds,
where the words flow like a waterfall.

I can’t hear the echo,
except on the inside.
Am I deranged? Am I not?
Perhaps I’m just an echo!

From the cracks light searches for me
and finally a safe place is provided.

The campfire laughs its last laugh
I’m returned to the world in bubble-wrap.
They tell me its a safe place
but sometimes even bubble-wrap pops.