into the woods

sometimes
when going fishing
along
the creek that led to the river
we would stumble upon
makeshift
camps where the hoboes
lived.
there were cans scattered,
bread,
empty pint bottles
of whiskey.
tin plates and blankets
strewn about.
sometimes one would be
asleep
by a fire, on his side,
grizzled and snoring,
perhaps dead. we were quiet
as we crept by, trying
hard not
to disturb them,
wondering how it came
to this.
to be lying in the woods
in long coats,
high boots,
with arms folded and hands
together
as if in prayer.