Dusk is settling to dark on this cool September eve, and the first star hangs low and bright in the sky, twinkling with the cheery strands we’ve stretched high above the perimeter of the dance floor.
Momentarily lucid, I smell scat–fox. Where? I raise my head, but the tears come all the more. Alone here on the open hills, I wail, and on the in-breath, that scat again.
We’re making daub to finish Peter and Livia’s cob house. I step in gingerly. I have to warm up to the idea of muddy feet. But then it feels so good–gritty, cool, squirting between my toes.
Almost always there would be tracks–sometimes it would appear an entire flock of quail had circled him. Others, we would see the tracks of a coyote or wolf, and sometimes a mountain lion.