Make breakfast on my bed, the stone slab picnic table where I slept.
I have a kinship with tractors, slow moving and heavy, we hold up traffic. I race one up a hill. From their high open seats the drivers wave. I find my swim late at night, the heat has left the day, but I see a great sunset from the waters. My campsite is an exposed hill, I almost impale my hands pushing tent pegs into hard ground. Cup of wine but no inclination to cook in the dark.
