Six Hours Lost, Land Between the Lakes

Long after dark had fallen 
and the trail left behind,

long after the dog I had chased 
into the unfamiliar woods 

disappeared, she long gone into oaks 
and hickory and brush—and likely 

back asleep on the porch 
of my new boyfriend’s cabin—

I saw a fire in the distance 
and walked toward it. There 

in their camp, orange light flashing 
across their rough bearded faces, 

creased in dirt, unruly feral hair, 
tin cups in grimy hands 

like that movie.  Relaxing, they
mocked and jabbed at each other,

after a long day of timbering. 
Nearly all jumped up when 

I wandered in, but the youngest 
stayed seated, continued pawing 

at the ground with a hatchet 
while I spoke, as if he were embarrassed

I was young, too, and pretty enough, if
that ever matters, and alone 

in the woods, completely soaked
in fear, finding no real relief 

in discovering their camp. 
I counted quickly. There 

were eight of them. Their eyes 
as astonished as mine 

that we were there, together, 
miles away from everyone and 

everything in the middle 
of the night woods. They huddled 

for a few moments, looking over 
to eye me and then back to hushed talk. 

Finally, two set down their whiskeys.
It had been determined. They would be the ones 

to drive me back. The drive was quiet 
but for me in the middle of the cab, 

pointing out turns. When I stumbled 
from the old logging truck 

into the washing blue lights
of the sheriff’s and deputy’s cars, 

I rushed into the arms of a man I would 
date for only a few more weeks. 

It’s good to remember this kindness of men,
especially in the times we are living.