I.
Night sky filled with stars,
difficult to discern the Big Dipper
among such glittering abundance
as I stand in an empty field,
look up, turn in a circle,
surrounded by jewelled vastness,
an offering rarely seen,
until I remember that the stars
are always there,
that this spectacle appears every night,
but I have chosen to live amid streetlights,
deprived myself of this view.
II.
The birds wake me long before Reveille,
their songs and chatter
beginning at the first hint of light,
thrilled that the night, once again,
has ended,
something I take for granted
and never question,
but perhaps I should be more grateful,
greet each morning as a miracle
and promise.
III.
I miss having a sink, hot water
or any kind of tap water,
heat in my tent,
a bathroom with a light,
a toilet that flushes
and isn’t a hundred yards away,
and then I think of Gaza, Syria, Sudan,
and so many other places
where people have none of those things
yet somehow manage to survive,
and I stop complaining.
