where the blue herons tiptoe along the banks of the creek
exposed by the retreated water in the dry winter season
and the ganglion roots of the old cypress who stand above
drip down from the majestic trunks into the water
like dangling spaghetti strings
where the puffy white clouds in the powder blue sky
reflect down onto the water, a mirror image of the heavens
where the birds soar high above the shady canopy
and the nature lovers bask below in communion
to enjoy the gentle breezes around a toasty campfire
where campers delight in hot dogs, better than any at home
or in a ballpark, cooked outside over an open fire ring
where the glory of the sunrise and sunset
are gazed at through treetops instead of windows
where the living room floor is made of dirt
and the dining room always has a view
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