He’s said it before,
and I’ve thought it sweet.
Tonight, he said it again.
Leaning his hooded head
out the window,
while we chatted
before going inside,
before going about
nighttime routines.

“It smells like
a camping morning.”
He sniffs.

The cool air,
the rain-soaked earth,
the birdcalls. They all
remind us
to listen, to pay attention.

It’s March. This year,
more than any other,
it feels like the furthest
we’ve been from camping weather.

But he’s right.
The smell of
someone’s chimney
could be a campground
neighbor’s nightly campfire.
The damp grass,
could be the dew-covered blades
that cling to our
sandals during
those hurried morning
walks to the bathroom.

I watch him and smile.

“You’re right.”
I sniff.