I am roused to consciousness
in the quietest hour of the night.
Even the crickets have long since
retired their squeaky instruments
and snore in sleepy slumber.
The dying campfire embers
silently smolder like a smoking gun
as the last of the Kumbayas sung hours prior
simultaneously play like a broken record
in the minds of thirty pre-pubescent campers.
A quivering and quaking outside of my tent
and the sound of mischievous giggles
alert me that something outside is amiss-
that tonight, the proverbial inmates
are temporarily running the asylum.
An excited whisper from without
beckons a call to arms to join the cause.
Unzipping the flap of my tent
just enough to peak outside,
I witness a chaotic scene of fifteen pairs of legs
stripped down to Underoos,
randomly running and frolicking
to and fro in all directions,
their path illuminated by nothing more
than the pale glimmer
of the moonlit, midnight sky.
When Moses descended Mount Sinai,
bearing the Law of God in both hands,
the Children of Israel abruptly sobered
and ceased their anarchistic play.
Likewise, when the booming sound
of the camp counselor’s voice
threatens impending doom and gloom,
the modern would-be rebels
quickly dive into their tents,
like cockroaches darting under the fridge
at the glare of the kitchen light.
And once again,
“All is quiet on the Western Front.”