There are eight of us.
Now late 50s to early 70s
But we were children once,
And together.

Camping in the woods.
Everyone has stories.
I don't remember the events
Only the retellings.

But as we walk the grounds,
Glimmers of remembrance 
Surround me,
The creek, the campsites. 

Tonight, as I sit at the
Open fire, the light fading
As shadows emerge,
I feel you there.

A deeper look through
The redwoods and I am
Reminded that they know me,
That they know us.

A movement to my left,
A bird call to the right,
And we are eight,
Even if only in my mind.