clouds of wigwam

at the camp in oran the tents are drenched in rainwater. we would sleep in the damp with the tarpaulin stroked by gushing water on the lower side and feel of the frosted skin of our cheeks on the upper side. at the camp the coconut trees line the banks bending over the sneezy lake. we would climb these trees and the higher we go the more feathered our wings become diving straight cutting through the water into the smoky mud down below. at the camp there are no bears or wolves but there are ants and wasps and snakes all over and i remember hating them a lot. i always lead the hunting pack at the camp and its funny I would always be the first to complain because my feet are always too heavy for climbing hills. at the camp I sneak for cigarettes because it is not a place for pyro. at the camp all the torches burn bright at broad daylight and hearts break as dreams begin to hatch then finally goodbye. at the camp I dreamt of coming here.