Tomorrow I begin my leave of
yellow tents, outhouses, dirty socks and insufficient whisky.
Of cold metal chairs, itchy beard, sore feet and mosquito bites.
Of dear friends, bears in camp, no shower, and Folger's coffee.
Of cracked hands, stale stories, old newspapers and sunny midnights.
Just another month, another year, in my history on the North Slope.
Will I return in eleven months to begin the leave again?
Will I want to? Will I be able? No one knows.
Does God?
la 7/8/07