1
Count on twenty hours or so, taking down,
Disassembling, shit-canning, rat-holing
Stuff in Green Streamer’s nooks, dancing between
Raindrops as we pack and nature changes
From summer to autumn, soon king salmon
Will be on their redds for their once-a-life
Sextravaganza. At least we humans
Are free of that kind of do-it-once-and-die
Pressure, which one supposed could strip off
The fun parts in the deal and reduce it
To sheer genetic duty, as when kings
Procreated half-an eon ago.

2
For us this is loading the old pack-horse
And leaving the annual rendevous
With people like ourselves, to journey back
Below the Bridge to traffic and mayhem
Brought home on twenty four-hour news channels,
And neighbors blasting fireworks, kids screaming,
Jus like in primitive campgrounds along
The Two Hearted River made famous
In name by Hemingway, who never saw
The place, rather ganked the name to sell
His short stories to people whose nature
Consists of Central Park, guarded by cops.
What I like about campgrounds viz neighbors
Is that assholes will likely be chucked.

3
It’s goodbye for now to billion-star
Nights, a trade for million-man marches
And other political gesturings,
Goodbye to unlocked trucks and people
Who stop to see if you’re okay when
You pull to the shoulder to watch a fawn.
It’s goodbye to a unique way of life
Dictated by seasons and weather spats,
A place where everybody’s armed,
But rarely shoot each other in anger.

4
It’s hard to say goodbye to all this,
One day here, the next back in Hell down below.
Even the Green Streamer groans at the task,

The pacing like Ike before D-Day’s
Big Show at Normandy, his troops
Crossing on ship and boats while we transit five miles
Over water on a big green bridge,
Leaving behind what seems at least to be
A far superior way of living.
The bold grow old;
The old don’t grow bolder.