Last night we listened to coyotes howl below us at two o clock in the morning; wretched, alone, and hungry, their voices carrying through the hills, wanting. We slept below an open sky, it was warm and we didn't put the fly on the tent. I could watch the stars spin above the earth; feel the breeze blow up the mountain from the ocean and onto my face.
Last night we heard the crickets scratch their legs together all around us until the air hung thick with sound. We built a roaring fire using just
one two matches. We hiked a trail I'd never seen before, and looked below at the fog lying heavy and full atop the city that I love; invisible and indistinguishable from the ocean were it not for the top--the very tip--of that great living tower, peeping out like the head of a forgotten god, nothing left but bones now, drowning in a billowing white sea.
Last night at four o clock in the morning two men came buzzing into the parking lot in an ancient, wheezing mobile. They shouted at each other and then began to head up the hill, cutting through the woods towards our tent. As they neared the perimeter of our campsite, I switched on my light and confronted them, hitting them with several watts and deep, booming voice. They answered me and I didn't falter. Then they turned back, and I felt brave and scared all at once.
Last night a mouse raged inside our foodbox, and in the pitch as we got up to investigate, we laughed as it played peekaboo, head hidden away with body in plain sight. A tiny tail hanging limp from the cirner of the cabinet. We surrendered to it our chocolate, our cheese puffs, our tomatos. You cannot have our coffee.
This morning we watched the sun come up through the trees. We saw the glow of the lights of the city slowly give way to a brighter, more beautiful din. Birds came alive in the trees, and we woke and packed quickly and quietly, and drove home again to go to work today.