The Camp Without the Tents (Bivouac (reprise))

Lyrics

We walked the cliffside trail. Pemba stayed back on the ridge, a small shape against the blue.

No tent poles, no canvas roof.
Just the woolen blankets, thick and gray.
I showed you how to find the flat stones, to build the circle for the fire.
"This is a bivouac," I said.
"From the French. For a by-watch."

And we keep a watch on the night.
The stars are the roof.
The wind is the wall.
The ocean sings its long, low song.
And you feel the cold ground through the wool.
This is how you know you're here.

The driftwood caught. It smelled of salt and time.
The tin kettle hissed above the flame.
Sea spinach in the broth, salty and green.
Dried fish from the smokehouse.
Pemba's shadow nodded from the hill.
She knew we were safe.

George Mallory wrote a letter home in 1922.
From twenty-five thousand feet, sleeping in the snow.
He wrote, "One feels alive in such exposure."
Huddled close, I understand.
The world is so big.
And we are just small, warm things.

And we keep a watch on the night.
The stars are the roof.
The wind is the wall.
The ocean sings its long, low song.
And you feel the cold ground through the wool.
This is how you know you're here.

Morning came, gray and mist.
Salt on our skin.
We scattered the stones from the fire pit.
Folded the blankets.
Nothing left but our footprints in the damp earth.
We were here.