Accounted For

Desert Camp

36 Desert Camp At midnight, a wild donkey brayed around the tent, crushing stones in moonlight. At sunrise, discovery—a rough garland of gold nuggets, avenue of plum well-piled and braiding through the vestibule. Kierkegaard would have said this is like Existence—like “the frog you found at the bottom of your beer mug.” Not waste, but something unexpected— You’re free to decide, he’d say, have seen the mine shafts its ancestors were dragged-in for, that the lugging out of silver and the overload of earth on their long thin backs—the subjection, and backward kicks of night, moans around cactus, dust blowing through the sweltering days, is Either inconsequential history Or it is not. Either way, the herd out there is potent, determined, with a gift or with a message, and just like you, living for it. ...