The first knot doesn’t count.
You’re bound to fuck it up.
The rabbit comes out of the hole;
he starts to circle the tree. Halfway home,
he finds another bunny. So they tangle.
To build a fire without a match,
locate a woody-tissued branch
that’s light in lignin.
Also something to cause friction. You
may need to ask a pal for his assistance.
You might need to use
somebody’s shirt to catch the sparks.
Now you’re ready for the lean-to.
Now you’re ready for the closeness
of a makeshift bunk and shelter.
And in the night you make your meal
of foraged mushrooms.
Careful, friend. The edible ones,
with their sublime aroma of earth,
are what you’re after. Not the snowy,
bulbous caps of amanitas, no matter
how much they entice you.
Nuts are always nice,
though they may need grinding.
Try acorns, shagbark hickories,
piñon pine, or burry chestnuts.
Roast the flowerheads of cattails;
make a salad of their shoots.
In the woody honeysuckle vine,
you may find robins’ eggs. If so,
you might try roasting them in clay.
And why not devise a language
while the bonfire dims. The camp’s
a temporary site, you say, using
Navajo Code Talkers’ tongue.
What else you know? Dot-dot-dash.
Now add the old Caesar Shifting Cipher.
A dash of Latin learned at catechism,
in camera, sub rosa, in flagrante delicto.
All the signals made with flares,
all the signals made with hands:
Bravo: I’m discharging dangerous cargo,
India: I’m coming alongside,
Zulu: I require a tug, and
Uniform: You’re running into danger.
Vulpecula, the little fox, is in ascension.
The rabbit comes back out of his hole.
No one’s going to see what happens here.
We might as well be in India. Zulu.
Bravo. Bravo. Bravo.