fl ashes away above the black tip of the hill behind Lion Camp. No one else here, so cold. Taking my old GI blanket I step into the open and stand wrapped in my own warmth, like a Bedouin or an Arapaho. Not a sound. No insect, nighthawk, or owl, the stream so low it runs without noise among the dry boulders. I hear my breathing. What a good garment a blanket was in the old days for speculative thought, and personal dignity, arms not free for work, or love, or fi ghting. But I've come away with too much on my mind, and like none of it, and can only hold it like a man standing carefully with an armload so unstable he can't put it down. |