the deepening ground

As summer’s curtain drops and the stage resets for another academic year, I return to my only camping excursion in late June with my second youngest son. We gathered with a group of friends and fathers to camp and kayak. The food and fellowship were wonderful and our time on the Allegheny River, including stops to leap from boulders to the cool waters below, restored my soul.

But I did not find rest at Marlowe’s Rest (our campground). No offense to the owners nor even the loud “campers” who partied into the early morning hours just a few sites up from where all of us tried to sleep in our tents. In those hours between 11:00 PM and 3:00 AM, I frequently popped up from my air mattress to scribble phrases in the dark, not wanting to wake my son. “RVs killed camping!” I wrote — at least from the perspective of my sleepless evening.

The summer flew by, packed full with visits and other activities, many unplanned, and I can’t fully say I got the rest I needed in preparation to navigate the new academic year before me. But I know there will be boulders along the way where I can land my life’s kayak and just “waste” some time leaping into the cool waters below. Restoration always waits on those who don’t allow themselves to get caught up in the flow.

Perfidy at Marlowe’s Rest

By Vincent H. Anastasi 2025

The creek and the bullfrogs are drowned out by
the incessant babble of the drunks six
sites upstream, their raucous laughter flooding
the natural ambience at three AM;
the cacophony of voices carries —
no wildlife wanders by as their wild lives
thaw and resolve themselves into a dew.
Thankfully, my son sleeps within the thin
walls of our Coleman tent as hours pass
and the creek tumbles into the Allegheny.

They'll stumble into their campers and not
hear the unattended distant duck nor
boys and men leaping from boulders, swinging
from knotted ropes into the river while
herons patrol the banks and bald eagles
come to rest in the pines and the only
sound is the rhythmic paddle of oars on water.

The night moves on to a silence and my
son's heavy breathing until morning breaks
with the varied carols of birdsong and
the old rooster crowing softly in the distance.