the cinders danced
with the shadows of shrubs
and the leaves of trees
gently applauded
choirs of crickets
we sat around the campfire
and as silent
as the moon beams
into her own
abyssal selves
in the mirroring lake
it crept in
like the wind
inside our tents,
whispers
from willows
who never weep:

someday,
we will be
the ghosts
in our stories.