#368 Sycamore Creek Poem by Jimmie Arrington

Fifty miles, chilly nights,
Dark skies, a million lights.
We live as though we're Cherokee,
Enjoying earths natural delights.
This is where I want to be.

Tents pitched, campfire lit,
Chairs set around the pit.
Stories and jokes are a guarantee,
Complete with flatulence and spit.
This is where I love to be.

Dr Pepper, Hostess cake,
A full blown stomach ache.
Marshmallow wars until three,
Making as much noise as we can make.
This is where I need to be.

Fireworks, midnight trek,
Firearms, raising heck.
Are we seventeen or thirty?
Who needs a reality check?
There's nowhere else I'd rather be.