Campfire Tales

By daylight it was only rain,
a wagon mired at the creek,
three people pushing at one wheel
and nobody fit to speak.

At night we gave the thunder teeth,
the wheel a stubborn will.
Each telling moved the water up
another inch of hill.

The youngest asked what really happened.
We pointed to our boots:
the mud was true, the laughter too.
A story keeps both roots.