August 27

Moonlight pours from the full moon and across the bridge like paint from a can. Indian Creek rustles in its gulch, and the evergreens of Wallowa-Whitman National Forest stand poised, ready to trap the moon in the net of their branches when it passes behind them in its lateral trek across the sky. All of that is outside, where I can see my breath. Inside, it is warm. I feel like the king of a very small castle.