We were already lost,
in itself a high cost to pay.
Camp was so far away.
Then a light summer spray began.
Not a part of our plan,
sudden winds made a fan with drops
pulling out all the stops.
We were soaked from our tops to shoes.
Nothing left we could lose,
moving forward we’d choose to run,
but with no sense of fun,
to the place we’d begun (we’d hope).
Down a slick, slimy slope
in a brown, muddy soap on shale,
fighting urges to wail,
we got back to the trail at last.
And if ever we’re asked,
rainy day hikes this vast are quashed.
© Susan Schoeffield
Written for the Day 24 of Creative Bloomings “Granada Camp for Wayward Poets” prompt to write a poem about being caught outside in the rain.