Wait for Night
Where this story happens is a place along the creek I pedal past about every day. For a long while last summer there was a crew doing stuff there, so they kind of became part of . . . I don’t know: they became possible, if that makes sense. I started wondering what they might be digging up. And who they were. And then I remembered a big field of blown-down trees I got lost in on the reservation one November, and how all these upturned root pans were enough for me, they were all I needed, or could think of.
And then I wrote this story.