A final full, bluebird day in the beautiful forested hills of New England. I only interacted with two other humans today, both of whose company I enjoy. I spent most of the day with that absurdly cute cat, Voltron, and a book recommended by my beloved friend.

Do the thing [you don’t wanna do] for five minutes, then rest.

I think I’m still in Wabanaki territory, but I’ve crossed multiple state lines, and hiked a granite mountain midway. I’m bedded down in my car in my friend’s driveway with no light pollution whatsoever, bug noises galore. The sky is cloudy but the growing moon is nonetheless bright. I look forward to the stars.

Today is my last in Maine for a while. I have been packing Sorcha with ease: last year’s gains in understanding and efficiency remain strong, and I’m traveling in only two seasons as opposed to all of them this time. From nine months to four and a half—here goes nothin’.

does one listen now? We are here and nowhere, isolated and surrounded. Everywhere connection without connection. Whose ears hear the a story from the mouth of another, in this din? Who pauses? Who plays? Who is not triaging their own wounds, hastily, frantically, absent-mindedly?

Your farts are hilarious, and not that stinky.

I’ve always preferred to dance along the edges. I look down rocks to water, or more rocks. Sometimes there are crashing waves below me. Once manta rays, dark and massive, like underwater storm clouds. That precipice was many more feet higher than the sandstone ledge from which I jumped into an oasis pool some deserts ago. The rocky cliffs are especially green up north, the water especially indigo. I like the edges. I like to see the bottom and greet my fear. I jumped into the St Lawrence River once, plunging deep into the froth with my shoes on.

I also play in broader lands, of course. I twirl and dance with abandon in wide swaths of green, or dusts of colorful browns. I lean in loaf in the havens of animals. Some in open spaces are less watchful than one might expect. I can get that way, feeling comfortable. That’s when I go find an edge to toe right up against.

I once startled a skunk who didn’t spray me.

I’ve shared space with buffalo at breakfast.

I snuck up on a deer who didn’t run.

I talked to turkeys who were afraid to cross the path in front of me.

I’ve greeted elk who sang good morning.

I got nibbled by a caterpillar.

I watched a gopher build their nest from two feet away. For hours.

I head to the cliffs when I need a strong reminder. I usually pull back before I do anything dumb. Everywhere else feels so safe, almost boring in its calm.

Until it isn’t.

Caught unawares, I will run. I barrel straight for the cliffs, full gallop. I won’t stop til I get there, suddenly skidding over rocks as I spin my arms wildly.

If I can keep from falling, I’ll look back toward that place that used to seem so safe. I’ll look and wonder at the taking for granted I’ve done. I’ll admire the precision with which a fearsome blow has just been dealt, all of my guards down.

On the cliff I know how to protect myself, and so the game is fun. It’s the earthquakes, the sinkholes, the shift of solid land, that surprises me. The fault lines I never wanted to toe up against. I am interested in broad foundations. I want to stay on solid ground.

Spring has returned. The earth is like a child that knows poems.

Rainer Maria Rilke

In the blue dawn the twittery chatter and lilting tunes come in by the window on a breeze lighter these days, laced with tender warmth. It is this air that coaxes the brave shoots of green from their sodden beds, beckons the birds from their sleepy hideouts. The light comes early now. All of it, all together bidding welcome.

Did you enjoy your hibernation? Are you awake these daylight-saving days? But breathe, and forget if it matters. Now the wild world is calling you; now you can get up.

When I think of all of the people I’ve gotten to know, I’m surprised by what is lately requisite for a new person to truly catch my attention. It’s almost an equation, provided the real-life effort to learn about humanity one experience at a time yields corresponding results in covering a measurable depiction of human interaction: as the sum of people known increases, then the accessibility of new information decreases accordingly. This would also be affected by ground covered, allowing for the truths of pluralism in a world of six billion humans. Perhaps narrowing down to a more regional scope would be helpful if seeking to answer a specific query, though too the subject’s farther-reaching experience in that case should be included and considered to a reliable degree given the circumstances of the query. Inevitably there arises the entirely pertinent philosophical question of what constitutes knowledge among human beings, or what it means to be known. There is no certainty regarding whether anyone can know anything about another. Indeed, many of us find it difficult to trust even our knowledge of our own selves. Of this final part of the equation we can be sure that there is absolutely no aspect that can be given a reliable answer, even hypothetically. In conclusion, although I cannot quantify nor even clearly explain the phenomenon, but having spent now decades studying so many and such far reaching varieties of humans, meeting someone altogether new makes me giddy as fuck.

If you’ve got an unexamined life

Don’t count me in it

You’re not thinkin on your actions

Kindly cut me out

/

Fleeting fancy suits me fine

But I don’t do casual

I favor care among my company

I like eatin til I’m full

/

I don’t have great need of anything

I like folks who tell it straight

I’m not windin up or squaring off

I’ve a resignation toward my fate

/

I prefer a roaming life

Though it’s painful to depart

I’ve got relations with my sorrows

I keep track of my own heart

/

So when I leave you in the dust

It won’t be cause you’re mean

The reason’s you aint nothing new

And there’s plenty I’ve not seen

Lonesome Dove, Larry McMurtry

This is a dead end.

If you have already begun–you have–then you are closer now to a moment when it all has passed. You are nearer to the relief or grief of an ending.

How can it matter? What is significant about the distance

or substance

between here and there?

If the shovel stuck in that fresh white fall it was for the great heavy hunks pushed aside by the only vehicles on the road that day. The unsullied powder comes lightly, lifted from the pile to be moved. Wind blusters by, dusting off the top layer, to send the minuscule flakes sparkling glittery across the blank new surface of the world. Only in the repetitive motion does the body tire from hefting this fluff. Until the shovel sticks against a grimy cake of roadside slush that come uneasily free from the pillowy heaps it has bolstered. Here, the shoulders, breast, and back grow weary. We ask the legs to do work besides that of shuffling, wading through the un-density of freshly fallen blizzard, packing it in the slog.

There is nothing but the heat of our exertion now, breath to melt the whole refrigerated world. The shovel and the body in repetitive vigor, working wisely in a rhythm efficient, deliberate. Haste will not get us through anything called cyclone. Hurry does not serve a body whose work is far from finished. Three feet down until the solid ground, sometimes more. Sometimes bolstered in hunks brought by engined shovels, their lights blinking as if this was an emergency. Is it? The world around is silent in its three-foot new blanket, our effort unseen.

In the morning all the human homes will have similar trenches dug, by different bodies, other machines. A topside, sunshined world of warrens. The emergency lights stop scraping past after the day breaks, welcoming a sky so clear one wonders how the world went white, and whether its reflection could cause sunburn. Nothing more falls, and so the paths we’ve dug, narrow and piled high on the sides, become a delightful part of home. Here we are just animals, tunneled out against natural forces, basking in the sun and cold. The sugared glory of new-fallen snow.

Or, why I haven’t been writing as much.

These three books are filling gaps in my world that I hadn’t realized I’d been avoiding. They answer, finally, questions I started asking in elementary school.

The genuine optimism conveyed by a more accurate history of this colonial country has been as much a surprise as it is a new strength. I cannot explain entirely why reading of such hardship and often horror has brought me nothing but hope. But I have found that an honest history is the beginning of liberation. Now we will know all of our ancestors’ stories, not just the stories of those who have dominated. For this I couldn’t be more grateful. (The 1619 Project created by Nikole Hannah-Jones)

My fundamental arguments against the eightfold path have been responded to, and wonderfully. Finally, a buddhist practice that offers to address righteous anger. Here now we have made room for those who would not be monks sitting alone on mountains, but rather who engage in activism, who fight for freedom. Those who would extricate themselves in real time, in the real world, that we might turn back and offer our hand to the next. (Radical Dharma from Rev. angel Kyodo williams, Lama Rod Owens, and Jasmine Syedullah, PhD)

The intertwine of my own freedom with that of every other human is a gift, not to be untangled but celebrated. If brevity is the soul of wit, maybe palatable concision is the heart of freedom. This little book has all the best tools for the gender conversation that will liberate us all. (Beyond the Gender Binary by Alok Vaid-Menon)

I went to a party on the fourth of July. I could give a shit about the holiday, but the party was being hosted by a respected colleague of one of my best friends, with whom I was staying in Chicago at the time. Of course, the party was way out in the suburbs. These folks were white, rich, and, as I was warned along the ride through multiple toll booths and corn fields, voted for Trump. Indiana looked exactly how I’d expected Indiana to look.

We arrived to a gated community where the houses were almost on top of each other, so crowded were they inside their fencing. There was remarkably little lawn or garden space, though these folks clearly adored their home improvements. There was some kind of water somewhere, maybe a man-made lake, which I guess made the neighborliness worth it to folks. Notably few of the houses looked the same, though most could have easily housed multiple families. The one we arrived to had two BMW motorcycles in the garage and a giant hole in the backyard that the owners kept apologizing for. The pandemic had stalled their pool, unfortunately for everyone. Not thirty feet away from our hosts’ hole though was the neighbors’ pool, which we were welcome to if we’d like. It was full of exactly the folks you expect. At some point I was drunkenly ushered into the neighbors’ home and found myself asking someone’s grandmother, “Why am I in this house?” Capitalists will show off their homes to literally anyone.

I was by far the most alternative person between these two backyards, and while I wasn’t particularly welcomed, I wasn’t directly made to feel unwelcome either. Thank goodness for our gracious hosts, who genuinely did seem delighted to have us. I can honestly say I enjoyed their company as well–it was a party, after all. I was determined to have fun, even if it meant being alone with my best friend on the dance floor, ignoring a lot of critical eyes, and singing along to classic rock. Of course this all explains why, later that night, I was still drunk enough to get out of the car and dance on the pavement while we were stopped in massive tollbooth lines headed back into Chicago. There was a lot of honking, and some cheering, also a lot of people pretending not to notice, which seemed weird. Between the two tollbooths I made friends though, and was even offered a shot. It was maybe 10PM: Chicago never lets me down.

A couple of hours before this hilarious and harmless yet disorderly conduct, the man of the house, an older Gen Xer who I’ll call Todd, had brought out his best tequila for us. The vocal admiration between my dear friend and this man had begun quite professionally, almost bashfully, upon our arrival. I was even lucky enough to be pulled aside by Todd and told of my friends’ distinct ability in her field; further, that she was far too humble. (The latter was news to me like, fifteen years ago.) As the afternoon waned, the two honorable colleagues were gradually, amusingly, becoming a sappy mess. Eventually, tequila toasts were in order.

It was over these drinks that it was brought to my attention, not for the first time, that the progeny of our hostess, let’s call her Becky, was seventeen, living under their roof, and had announced a pronoun preference that Becky wasn’t interested in. “It’s so silly, he wants to be called ‘they’!” She proclaimed, “Is ‘she’ next?” I found it charmingly idiotic that Becky would think for a second that I would be sympathetic to her case, yet here she was, looking at me with the conspiratorial eye roll of “you get it”. Todd had casually brought it up to me much earlier, equally more soberly, and seemed to genuinely seek my opinion. My sweet friend, having too-often witnessed my irascibility in our younger years, overheard Todd’s words and expertly steered us toward safety. I certainly appreciated her, but later found myself, having been alerted by Todd so much earlier, glad to be unruffled by Becky’s fresh outburst. Now, confused by my head-shaking denial of her truth, Becky was starting to wonder about the whole thing. “What does it even mean?” she whined. There was no steering the conversation at this point, try as anyone might. I realized, consciously working not to judge Becky too harshly, that it was now or never.

Todd, for his part, was watching me closely. It seemed he had been waiting for this, knowing his wife as he did. For the record these two were fabulously enamored with each other; I had never seen a poster-sized wedding portrait above a headboard before. To some degree they may still have been in the honeymoon phase, and it was cute as hell. We were discussing a child Todd had known only a few years, but clearly cared for. Although he talked around it stiffly, it was obvious that the new step-dad was feeling deeply unqualified right then. Todd was honestly flummoxed. Becky, however, was at her wit’s end. She ranted some and then looked to the rest of us for approval, finding little support. “All teenagers are annoying,” I said. Becky, reaching, took this as vindication. Todd knew better: he physically leaned in. I was beginning to understand what drove my friend in her loyalty to him. This was my moment.

Across the patio table and an empty bottle of mezcal, I looked into the eyes of this pampered pair and said, more quietly now, “Do you love this kid?” Becky rolled her eyes again, feeding into her own exasperation, as Todd said clearly, “Yeah, of course.” This got his wife’s attention–you really can’t blame her for being slow on the uptake after however many shots–she was trying now. I had both of them trained on me as I said, as clearly as I could, “Then this is not the hill you want to die on.” I could see the reflection of a mic-drop in Todd’s eyes. Gratified, I looked to Becky, who hadn’t heard me. She huffed as I continued, “It doesn’t matter to you half as much as it matters to them, and it’s not hard.” Then I swung for the fences: I gestured around us, to their future pool and back toward their stupidly large house. “I refuse to believe that people who have come as far as you, are this successful, and happy,” I let my voice trail off as Becky beamed, “I refuse to believe the people I’ve met here today aren’t intelligent enough to change their language for somebody they love.”

Ultimately, both parents admitted that they didn’t want to lose this kid’s trust over something as trivial as grammar. That doesn’t mean they didn’t use masculine pronouns the entire time, or that they’ll adjust at all. It also doesn’t mean that things will necessarily get easier for any member of that family. All I can share is that it seems if one pays attention, they might seize many moments, strange and sundry, to foster revolution. And on that day, despite our differences, a good time was had by all.

Dear loved ones,

I had planned a tour of telling all of you in person this winter, but life planned differently. And so, an email. A friend pointed out that this actually gives everybody more space to acclimate to the whole idea, which I hope is helpful. A few of you receiving this are already in the know, as it were, but I couldn’t leave you out. It has taken me weeks to write; finally sending this on the weekend that celebrates the man who dreamt we’d be judged solely by the content of our character seems about right.

You all knew little “tomboy” Kiah. I can recall many moments growing up when femininity encroached on my ideas of myself in ways I couldn’t then comprehend. You were witness to this confusion, whether explicit or not. I am so glad you’ve known me all along.

I discovered quickly that I was very strange compared to my peers, not to mention wholly confused by the expectations placed on me. I only first realized I wasn’t doomed to be a pariah when I got lucky enough to spend time producing The Vagina Monologues. In that theater was my first opportunity to see that a different world existed—a queer world in which I could maybe actually be what was in my heart. That experience literally saved my life in high school, although it would still be a long road to admitting, standing in, and finally being proud of, my truths.

I have been out as a queer person for a little while now (and that took long enough!) but it has been trickier to claim my lack of gender. I have been afraid to upset anyone, afraid of insistence on my womanhood, afraid of anyone prioritizing comprehension over love. Lately here in Maine, I am grateful to be feeling free and held enough to be proud of my truth. I hope you’ll be proud of me, too.

There’s a lot of research you can do on this, if you are so inclined, but it’s not necessary. This is a unique journey for each person who claims it, and I welcome any and all of your questions. Ultimately though, your love for me might preclude your desire to understand. I hope it will not hurt you to do this thing I ask, as it can only help me.

I no longer use feminine pronouns. They/them/theirs is the language I use to describe myself. I apologize for the inconvenience this causes all of us. The thing about changing our language is that we will all slip up, and that can feel uncomfortable. I still make mistakes in feminizing myself, which feels not great. Of course, most of you have been using “she/her” pronouns about me for longer than I have! Habits are hard to break, but it is in the trying that I will see your heart. And I will love you, trust you, and feel so much safer with you, for that effort.

I am your sibling, child, nibling (alternative for niece/nephew), in-law, step-family, cousin. We are calling me “Uncle” for the little ones, cuz it sounds nice with Kiah, and feels good to me as a genderless person.

The bcc is for your privacy only, as I do hope you’ll reply, discuss, and share your experience, as you please and on your own time. Again, I will gladly answer any questions. I won’t be offended—you’re my family. Lastly, I have included helpful—and fun!—media below.

I love you, Kiah

If nothing else, please listen to this: via Spotify, on Apple podcasts, or you can watch the conversation on youtube. The brilliant and poised interviewee of this podcast, Alok Vaid-Menon, has also written a really short book entitled Beyond the Gender Binary. Every single thing they say and do makes me feel like a world that welcomes me is possible.

NPR also wrote a guide

More indirectly to my personal experience, the HBO show “Sort Of” and the third season of “Sex Education” on Netflix bring lightheartedness to heavy subjects, including being nonbinary. These aren’t pushing a queer agenda, but illustrating humans as we are: unique, flawed, scared, and better when we love each other with our ears wide open.

Thinking inwardly of how silly it had been, given our current circumstances and the trust lost between we two, I told them casually that I’d carried a torch for a while. To look up at their stricken face was beyond surprising, “Oh,” they said, “oh no that would never have happened. I’m so sorry, but I have never thought that way about you.”

That this statement registers unkind was not my first impression. Instead I wondered how this person tends to their own heart. What is a crush if not appreciation, a flutter in the chest, an uncomplicated joy? To what sentiment do we owe an apology? How did they presume I had been injured by not knowing they didn’t share my sweet sentiments?

It has been several months since this conversation took place, and still I wonder. Still I hold cute crushes in my chest, and a singular, deep love in my heart for one I cannot have. None of these are grievances, regardless of the future. They are instead warm, well-lit joys to which I secretly tend, with neither hope nor anguish. Should desire be so painful as to require an apology when unsatisfied? Perhaps the intention was indeed cruel; perhaps patriarchy is to blame. In either case, the flame was long cold before I spoke of it. Only this curious conversation remains.

it happens almost suddenly

gently

he heaves his own shoulders

always broad, now fatherly

to lift what i’ve been carrying

he will ask, “sister?”

leaning forward, bending his knees

and i will answer.

both gratefully

his infant son still sleeping

the beaver moon rises huge against the horizon, butting impatiently, massive in the orange afternoon, making way for twilight. the last leaves cling pathetic; having refused to fall in their post-green glory, they scratch mousy protest against the wind’s encouragement. i trimmed the grape vines back today, in preparation. now, in air absurdly crisp i stand, pink-nosed, bouncing on my toes with wind-beaten tears threatening escape, watching the plovers skitter over their glassy wet dominion. when does it get too deep for them to stand, in this sheen where the land ends, calm fresh waters meeting the sea. seagulls land nearby, swimming, wading. a few wander among the busy-footed, shore-obsessed flock, resembling shepherds somehow. they fly low again out to the surf then back to sandy business. the plovers, maybe sandpipers too, continue flitting to and fro. have all the geese departed?

your eyes follow the rushing plashing scrambling of a stream over piled rocks; an infinite hustle often roiling, lathered white and careening reckless over boulders who have seen it all before. here slowing to flow steadily, meandering, complaisant in the conveyance of gravity as it carries the whole waterway over an edge, plunging now to burst into foam against an impassive pool. all urgency dissolves in calm depths. motley pebbles and rocks are more visible in less excitable circulation, hiding still, decorated in soft greens that cling and dance, lilting in a watery breeze. the urgency of water is a tall tale: there is no actual destination, there will be no accomplishing. water stays in motion until there is no longer water, swashing drops into muddy beds, absorbed by greens, splashing from the fray, often drunk by a greedy sun or a needy creature. all along its course the water complies, adjusts, wending and winding and giving in. if your eyes could follow further, you might witness the final freshet out to sea, where stream mingles with salt, joins a tidal rhythm. each insignificant drop flowing through a lifetime, arriving as planned to the eternal ebb and flow, from which it never was apart.

I don’t need much to build a fire and kindle it strong so that it’s hotly lit in no time. I will bask in that light, dance around the flame. But I have been frivolous with intimacy, dismissive of potential. I might forget to feed the blaze, sometimes I simply run out of fuel. Enough time without me and the embers fade to cold. I regret that I let [you, maybe] go up in smoke. I will not again be so careless with a spark. I imagine new beginnings with less flare. Not immediately warming perhaps, but full of promise. I picture myself more patient, quiet so that I might witness the growth of intimate moments. The slow burn of tended trust.

he says the sky turns orange because the water in the storm is busy capturing city lights. on the farm everything goes black, they say. the clouds close in on everyone alike before the rain arrives in sheets, smacking against houses, sweeping down the streets. everything sounding out like the percussion section practice room. if you go out in that rain it feels heavy, pelting, and will sting your face if you let it. drivers pull over in that kind of rain rather than splash through torrential streams connecting ponds that were recently puddles. the whole world goes through the car wash, sheets of water slopping everywhere like a disastrous beaded curtain. oncoming traffic in inches of water hits your windshield like an honest to goodness wave from the ocean. the whole armageddon sky creeps overhead carrying the incessant fat droplets right along with it until suddenly the rain just isn’t coming down like that anymore. suddenly the sky is brighter, no longer a shade of doomsday. the rain makes a retreat no slower or faster that it came through, and you can watch it go. you can watch the retreating clouds still so black, still too heavy to stay off the ground. you can watch them continue breaking as they plummet toward earth, tendrils of dark sky following gravity, pelting the neighbors, now. the sky you’re under will change color again. lightening. the sun rejoins you, eventually.

in the chill there are leaves scratching, floating, constantly whispering. the sussurus of dead grasses. naked, lean trees sway in wintry breeze, softly moaning, sometimes creaking. the lilt of living wood. nothing to do but rest, now. the moon comes early to remind us.

Anymore I tell myself stories about you out of some lazy habit. They don’t even sit comfortably as much as I just have them memorized. Seems to me all mantras are some kind of make-believe. There must’ve been times we really paid attention to each other, but they’ve long since passed. I aint fixin to trust you with that kind of gut feeling again, and I am not sorry to say so. Truly, it’s a relief. I been missing what don’t exist, tellin myself tales. What you offered up firstly, what we found in our togetherness, I aim to find it again. You seem to be just going around handin folks your love all temporary-like, it sparks out so fast. Our light went out but the road goes on: I’ll make my own way and I’m sure you will too. From here on out I’ll content myself with whatever we have been when we were it. Happy trails to ya.

if the wind isn’t singing to you, the birds will

if the trees don’t dance, then the grass

It’s the closest I get to dancing with strangers. From all sides, people can encroach on my space, accidentally or otherwise. Sometimes I have to remind them who’s space it is. Despite the closeness, we seldom spill. When the staff comes to clean up there is a weird slow confusion on the dance floor. Then, almost springing forward, our movement resumes and we’re all cruising, destinations in mind again. We’re driving, not dancing, but I don’t know why people are here if not to have a good time. I especially like overhearing music or laughter, witnessing gestures I can’t read. I like the way we have to trust each other, to at least some extent, all along the way.

This is my most prevalent craving these pandemic years: the moments among myriad strangers where we might take for granted their goodness. Dancing, at the movies, museums, in bowling alleys.. places we felt safe among the masses whether they were known to us or not. I find this now in traffic, I guess. I’ll apparently forage for human goodness in any dung heap. For better or worse, I can always find it.

(Printed with permission of the authors.)

Transcription, edited:

Far and near I smell scaredness

Even when there is not

A raven that smells fear

Right when you think you fear nothing I know you fear something

Transcription, edited:

Nice

October 8th

Reading is my favorite

Awesome

You who read vastness of sky as an invitation to your own expansive attendance,

hear in thunder’s bellow a call to stomp your feet,

you who carry yourself like a knife,

say yes,

you who would stop to smell any flower at all,

seek solitude for the company,

you who know the rhythms of secret drums,

laugh relentless,

you who keep your hearth aglow in even the boldest storms:

Come find me, won’t you? i want to play.

The three of them looked sisterly waddling over, one with a limp, another with a greenish bill, as i was puttering around outside my tent. They came within feet, without hesitation. i immediately remembered the old triscuits that had absorbed so much damp from the air that they were inedible. How i hadn’t found a compost situation for them yet, had just been carrying them around in the car, vaguely in search of somewhere they could rot in peace. They weren’t moldy, just stale and rubbery with moisture. Perfect for ducks.

i fed the mallard ladies slowly, making sure each got her bites. i had plenty of crackers to break up for them, and so i watched them wander off and return again throughout the day. At one point when i thought them long gone, i threw a few crumbs out of the car. They showed up within seconds. If i walked around after i fed them they would follow me for a while. Have you ever had ducks wonder what you’re up to as you squat to pee on a lakeshore? i laughed out loud and made fun of them for being voyeurs. They asked for more snacks.

The three birds were just behind my car, i inside it. All of us were nestled onto our own bottoms, dealing with the wind and sputters of rain in different ways, when a sound i couldn’t hear sent them suddenly flying away. They didn’t go far, landing in the water almost immediately. We were all having the same kind of day, my favorite kind of day: wandering, snacking, visiting, sitting, reacting. Once i went out to meet them as they floated along by, throwing cracker bits directly into the water near each of them in turn.

The two able-bodied birds would pick on the one with the limp, but if they waddled away she would follow eventually. When i realized she would take her time in pursuit, i made sure to save her a crumb or two for when the others were distracted. They came and went with my welcome; i walked to and from them with unexpected ease. All three of them were comfortable within a foot of me. They let me watch them stretch and preen. i admired their shiny blue and teal wing bands, their chunky brown patterning, bright white bottoms, winged eye make up. One of them took an audible shit in front of me, and none were startled by my immediate and raucous laugh.

It occurred to me that the presence of the dog of which i’ve been dreaming would likely preclude a day such as this. These three birds were circulating the campground though, and i was the only one without a canine companion. i wondered if they were able to nap at the other sites. i wonder if they ate out of anyone else’s hands.

Just one of them was this brave. Perhaps a couple hours into our day together, she lowered her head and flattened her neck out to reach for a piece of cracker pinched in my outstretched hand. From then on she was happy to do it again at my suggestion. i watched her comfort increase as the day went on, and caught her waddling right up to my feet more than once, begging. One of her sisters considered taking similarly offered snacks, and kept considering. The limping one was neither of these, which struck me as wise on her part.

These birds live here. This is their lives. Animals are meant to lean and loaf, as Whitman insisted for himself. As i insist now. This is the only career in which i am interested: catering snacks for other animals when they come to my doorstep to remind me not to worry about a thing.

When your bed situation is less than level, your body, however tired, will wake you about it in the middle of the night. Like when a baby cries, you may not know immediately why you cannot continue your slumber. You may try to sleep again after having some water, or a pee, maybe both. Sleep will not return however. The baby continues to cry until you realize you’re tossing and turning on an incline. This realization actually feels more like a decline.

i have experienced more than a few sunrises this way. You may wonder why, as i sleep in my car, i couldn’t, simply, move it? One hundred per cent of the time i am already on the most even ground known to me. There’s the option of driving until i find somewhere new, of course, but this situation has its own special fatigue. It’s all i can do, while half asleep, to remind myself that the new day will soon be accompanied by a new night: another chance to rest.

This morning i was contemplating just these things under a sky of deep, dreary grey as it was fading to white. The lake beyond my windows moved as if with a tidal current, swift and choppy. Fog obscured the opposite shore, the wind blowing clouds around with seemingly earnest aimlessness. i thought perhaps the shoreline could provide me with a flat stone to level a rear wheel, and focused on this as a solution as i dragged my consciousness into a new day.

It was after nine when the neighbors started their truck. i couldn’t see it, but i heard that rumble with an immediate optimism followed by the crushing wisdom of experience. The likelihood of anyone packing out on a Friday morning was close to none. As if in confirmation of this thought, the truck engine cut off. A small part of me hoped they’d been moving it to hitch their trailer, but as i brushed my teeth i focused on what i might require of my leveling rock. Rocks, probably. i considered the new spade my pops had got me, which i could use to adjust the ground if i needed to. From my spot just inland, i couldn’t see much by way of flat, big stones on the shore. Perhaps i would construct a small leveling block of rocks and dirt. i could mark the spot with the spade before i moved the car, assuring the balance would be right, or at least closer than it was last night. The truck engine turned over again. i poked my head out to watch my neighbors depart, trailer and all.

i took over that space without a second of hesitation, and within three minutes of this fortunate vacancy, my bed was level again. i set to making breakfast at my new site with a deep and grand contentment. Tonight, i knew, i would sleep well.