THERE IS THAT FEELING

I smell in the campground bathrooms,
I hear in the song from years before about a dead woman
coming tinny through the speakers
that reminds me of a friend moved across the country
who says she misses my hand writing.

and it fills me with a sense of longing,
with a desire to swim in the pond surrounded by paddy ducks
and kangaroo rats living on the dunes under skies
that are looked at through a telescope by someone
who is an echo of my own thought.