every
tree looks the same,
the sun is somewhere behind
the clouds.
we keep circling,
does moss really grow on
the north side of a tree?
neither of us have survival
skills.
we have no tools, no map,
no knives, or matches.
this stream again that
we cross, is it going down,
or up stream.
it begins to rain.
she calls me an idiot,
tells me that we
should have brought the bread
crumbs to toss behind us,
and mark our path,
but no.
it's our first fight, maybe
our last.
we're circling, and it's
late, almost dark.
we're soaked and tired.
we have no food, no water,
no cell phone reception.
is this how it ends, us
lying in the carved out
trunk of a fallen tree?
two miles from home,
from grocery stores, and
Starbucks,
even gas station vending
machines.
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