My Cardboard Balcony

We Make Camp by Belinda Roddie The fish are leaping in stark crescent moons over the night sky pool of incandescent past lives. There are plenty of bugs to feast upon, to swallow in great, gasping gulps, before glistening, scaly bodies descend back into darker, unfathomable depths. I offer a flask of something stronger than stars, for you to suckle on as the trees hum their lengthy, ages-old lullabies. The wind is light, but our hearts are heavy, while the canopy of our tent bristles like the feathers of sleeping birds, and the fires of dawn are itching to burst through the curtains blocking their celestial stage.

I could see the glint of a falcon's wings as it dipped past the end of the cliff, blending in with the white, angular rocks. I heard its shriek, its battle cry. I remembered the sword at my side, which I unsheathed and used to cut the remaining meat from last night's meal into easily chewable strips. When I began to feed the jerky to my injured friend, she coughed and spluttered but did not fight me.