(Straggling) Notes from Camp.

[mnaz]

March 25: I've been vulnerable to rage-- setbacks in the game, or the game itself. Get in line. I rarely analyze myself, but if I should come to despise songbirds, let the probe begin. I don't get the warblers. Their sunny verse turns up even at my end of the earth, in places I'd left for dead-- wren, thrush, kinglet-- issuers of shiny treble insistence. But they revere a clear sunrise quietly, same as me. I happen to catch one from the Sportsman's rear window, roused by rats in the dashboard, fortuitously-- a leap of light, as songbirds suspend their shiny verse to watch.

March 28: It goes dark. I build a fire, drink whiskey, pour whiskey on the fire, jog up on the north mesa where the trail glows for no good reason. My effort makes me thirsty, so I drink a tad more whiskey. Stars remain at ease until threat of a fat moon, which lights dull, heavenly silk in the east.

The End..