As Fine a Land As One Can Stand

Some come to sit, some to camp.
The thought is that there’s some bliss
In a high field with a creek.

Each year, the nights grow like grass,
Like leaves—they stretch, bit by bit,
They sneak up on days like thieves

Who don’t want to take, just stay
In the warm beds that aren’t theirs.
Creek keeps the tunes. Nights beg stars.