I could live with the tents. Quiet, refined,
polite little things that disturbed nothing, left
nothing but a few stake holes stabbed behind.
Even pop-ups, for all their clanking designs,
I tolerated. My problem lies with the rest.
At sun’s peak I watch midflight, resigned
at Eagles Jays Cougars Arctic Fox winding
down roads, bulking beasts beneath the cleft
oaks. They lurch into clearings they were assigned.
Wait. Then: tremolo calls drown beneath the grind
of water pumps, generator groans, deafening
compressor clicks, broken AC fans that whine,
TVs turned up to high. So humans come, pining
for the untamed outdoors, too long bereft
of a simpler life, all trailblazers hoping to find
Nature. Not nature like yard leaves, power line
birds, deer who eat gardens, weeds, rats, pests—
just the barren wilderness of long-ago times.
Poem by Sara Solberg
Sara Solberg is an MFA candidate at Northern Michigan University. When she isn’t writing, she can be found trekking through the forests surrounding her home, her furry partner in crime, Tasha, by her side. Sara’s work has appeared in Hippocampus, The Manhattanville Review, and The Other Journal.