Hungry for salt, blood, and grain alcohol,
the whole clan crowds around the fire,
their faces obscured by smoke.
Sausage casings filled with flesh
sizzle now and then and split open,
sounding like far-off detonations.
The fold-up furniture and grill on wheels
suggest we may be breaking camp
as soon as we finish eating.
For miles in every direction
lies cover–hedges and fenced patios,
garages, kitchens laid with provisions.
Above us, the fading remainder
of a jet stream stretches out for miles
like an unravelling pennant.
There may be others too high to see.
There may be nearby parties in camouflage.
There may be orders we have not received.
Really, our reconnaissance is limited.
It is hard to tell enemies from friends.
All we know is to eat and to keep moving.
Mark Trechock lives and writes from western North Dakota. His poems have recently appeared in Monday Night, Visitant, Noctua Review, Mobius and Evening Street Review.