0700
The makeshift parking lot campground
Has begun to stir

I’ve been up for some time
Watching the changing light
And writing

Brewing coffee
On a camp stove
One cup at a time

A snail is three feet up the plastic wall
Of our canopy tent

The fog is slowly lifting
But the sky is still gray

A mustachioed man
In canvas coveralls
Pedals his bike in circles
While cradling a travel mug

Soon the boys will be up
And I will cook my father’s pancakes