On a family camping trip at dusk

my oldest brother ran away
after a shouting match with our father.
Maybe they argued about cleaning up
the camp stove, or something cruel
my brother had said to our mom. Back then

my brother fought often, in bursts
of passion. Every door in our basement
had a hole kicked through it. Maybe then,
with only a nylon zippered tent, no
concrete suburban walls, it makes sense
 
he’d disappear into wilderness
which expands and contracts as light
plays on trees, as breath. Warm
in our sleeping bags, my middle
brother and I drifted and tossed, an
incomplete set. The canyon darkened,
grew cold and full of shadows,

before a camp host found him blinking
in the beam of a headlamp, expectant,
streaked with tears and dirt. I heard my brother
sob to Mom about his journey. How
he’d stumbled in pine-pierced darkness
and then followed a light. I know
honey. I know.