Sunday, January 7, 2007

Camping - day 5

For the fifth day now, we’re camped a mile and a half from Lake Pile. There’s a little fox that’s been scouting the perimeter of the campsite—looking in and figuring out our alien humanness. Last night I think I heard him, whining east at the sad faced moon, pale yellow and surrounded by the evening fog like the fur collar of an Eskimo. There is his whine, his voice, his tiny feet stirring twigs, wind through his tail. There is this grey countryside, his dominion of dens and underground trails. There are the pups, their tiny mouths, the feathers of a brown bird—her blood and her feathers and the left over bones.