By: DamnCasifer
A vast field, spotted white
with the little tents
of vendors and campers alike,
Their vibrantly colored signs
and sparkly wares set in the sun
to capture the attention of passerbys.
Burning hot sandy paths
and coarse, sharp grass
are nothing to bare feet
as one runs around freely,
little care given to their surroundings.
The scent of fryers in the kitchen tents,
of smoke from fireplaces,
of flowery soaps and worn leathers,
of the dusty dirt and grand pines
All mixed together and carried
on the faint breeze,
giving one a sense of peace.
Gunshots and cannons,
chatty groups of people
and laughing children,
thumps of knives and axes on wood,
and the banging of metal on metal
Create a unique melody,
heard only if you listen carefully.
The familiar faces of long time friends,
seen but only once a year
is all the more reason one
waits in anticipation
to escape to this place,
cut off from the busy cities
and the problems of the world.
It is a place to relax and visit,
to share stories around the fires,
to run wild around the grounds
and cause mayhem.
The campers are your family,
And the camp is your home.
