Scrub grass and grey pines and a field of horses, three white and two brown. Sinking into creek bank mud to push off the kayak. We drift imperceptibly slow, cut the water sometimes, with oars inexpertly arced, to examine the wet walls of the creek, holed out by innocent currents, perhaps, or crafty, unseen creatures. The rising blades drip water on our arms, on our legs. An arm of the river unbends and upon an outcropping of stump and mud and stick there is an animal, a beast, thick of tail and neck, with claws and sharp lips, a turtle whose shell no longer houses it. It is immune to our curiosity, our interference. We are awed; we are frightened. It is mightier than we.On land again we regard the goats, twisted horns, rectangular pupils, beguiling docility. "Do you think she's pregnant? Feel her belly. She feels fat. Are you going to have kittens, Lola? You're a scrappy cat, Lola, my kind of cat."
