Camp Sight

. for public domain My campsites had no history, like a house, a neighborhood, where children grow up, and grown ups grow old, a place that you miss when it's finally sold. They served for a night, or maybe two, sometimes for a month, til the time to go arrived. I would pack, and clean up the site, and rarely looked back. No site was ever mine to own, only a place to be alone with a hurt or low thought. Overwrought or distraught, the healing that came I could not have bought.