July's hot sun against my face, my legs mosquito bitten and bruised, hair tangled from the wind, and the blisters from my chacos.
A red dinning hall where we would, eat, pray, laugh and sing.
The steap stairs up the grassy hill I tripped down.
Rushing creak probably filled with bits of popsicle stick boats.
The cabins whose top bunks I slept in, whose screen windows drenched you with any rain or dew.
Things covered in the sand glitter of the Micah you can't seem to outrun.
The lake I learned to canoe in, with my clothes pin I always forgot.
Up the way on a gravel road I fell down on a mountain bike.
The barn I learned to ride horses, down the road from the chapel, up the hill from the dance hall, next to my archery range, across from the gym climbing wall, whose top I haven't reached yet.
The tennis court next to the hidden water fall where I got my first bee sting.
The big bell on the porch which still rings in my dreams, at the camp where I learned to love.
