We sat, parsing out the thousand

Sounds that croaked and cawed,

Chirped and chickadee’d

Out from the woods behind us.

The fire, low and burning

Lower, was pumpkin skin,

Ever-ripening with the point

Of our stories and our pasts.

Road trip bathrooms in the form

Of shrubs, cups, cans, and pans,

But not yet hands. We one-

Up in extremity. Our voices

Add in and make the forest

A thousand and three croaks,

Caws, chirps, and chickadees.