Winter Camping at Dungeness

Come dark
The surf booms
Against the steep
beach.
In their tent
My daughter
and her friends lie
head-to-head

like spokes of a wheel
and yak about
teachers,
body parts,
dumb boys.
They think
these thin walls
contain them.

I watch the fire.
Beyond its smoky glow,
beyond the trees,
the dark waters of the Strait
widen to the distant sea.
I listen and don't
listen as their talk slows,
quiets as sleep comes

to them,
these girls poised
on the edge
of childhood,
that familiar
contingent.
All night the wind
is strong
through the trees.

by Steven Quig