They say they closed
it down, that old campground
we all knew so well.
The smoke-filled sun
rising bit-by-bit
over the cliff with
each thump of the drums
beating together.
Snapping embers
flitting past the belly dancers
flying over the crowd
landing, pure soot
in the trampled grass.
The grass that cradled us
while others wandered Shakedown street
or searched for tents.
We melted with the air
fell with the morning dew
awoke wrapped in a blanket
of Terrapin Station--Grateful
opening our eyes.
The morning whistle blew
and reality set in,
it was the beginning
of the end.
Art by Debbie Poon. Words by Ciara Brewer.
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