We are in the backcountry Lewis and Clark style with natives and small pox and crows the size of canoes.
In some ways the body was just an instrument, one you could play on a street corner for tips. And he had more body left than mind, more body left than soul.
I walked eight miles and didn’t see another soul. Another hundred and I’d cross the Oregon border. I got to the lake, cleared a ledge of snow off by a small stand of trees and pulled out my tent, moving fast to stake it out.
We can curl up with our cats and blankets and books and reheat yesterday’s soup.