Up at Camp by Phil Huffy

My tiny friends are fewer every year, it seems,
though sugary potions are provided
at the customary spot reserved for their indulgence.
And I am told that even the moose
have moved slightly north within the county.
Baying coyotes, who we never see, of course,
sound increasingly mournful as summer hangs on
just a bit longer than it used to.


Phil Huffy often writes at his kitchen table. Most of his ideas are gathered elsewhere, although a certain amount of his work mentions food. Recently, he has placed poems with Schuykill Literary Journal, Poppy Road Review, Snakeskin and Runcible Spoon.