N = 5, High FIVE, One-hand clap

The Walker n=5

Lazy morning to break camp, stay in the tent drying out stuff to pack in the car. Retool the walking stick with furtive string and wax. Home but breaking its umbilical cord. upload* and go... same old iraq mess anyway - 5 is a very human number. autoroutes and haircuts - bill get his shaved gingerly - oil the way with compliments most meant - the crunch and clank of car at every light - hunting through bus schedules and map from the passenger's seat - to muddled and excited to really read - have to get somewhere by sundown - we stop at the Dangé campground - Now we are in the Touraine now - just 15 km from Decartes, the sleep village in its unseen smugness, I think - I think I think - I doubt therefore I am... little municipal campground by the river - all to ourself with dark clouds - me over eager to get the tent and our odd umbrella brick-brac up against the sky - company accross the way - Neat slim holandaise couple - blond, of course -sleek and organized. they make camp before I can find our pots - we lumber to greet them, overstuffed car and bodies, shamed by the archtonic form of our fellow piligims - who now returning from Santiago glow faintly like goodwill - we are alone again by the river - the crow of crows, then to a chorus of frogs - the crows settling quietly into huge nests that look like thickets of mistletoe - more to remember but a day late. eat, whisper, sleep