Wednesday, 11:28am. Thirsty.

I could hear the stream
flowing near the tent
and people were up and around.

I'd dropped like a sack of sand
at three-something this morning,
unable to continue drumming.

Some of the others had gone down earlier
and the rest would be dead to the world
until late afternoon,
when the summer sun
would roast them out of their comas
and force them down to the stream,
just like it was doing to me.

At the shallow water's edge,
where the rays scatter on the trickling surface,
some small relief can be found,
but a lake is what we crave.

Later, walking through the temporary village,
with its wooden seats,
pop-up kitchens and weary, half-dead faces,
I feel like I was here,
alive on this day.
And there was a reason.