Inhaling dawn on the river of life.
Baritone choir of bullfrogs at dusk.
Piercing high pitched sound shatters the darkness after midnight:
“Huh-eeeeh huh-eeeeh!”
Bad high pitched violin scraping sounds.
Ghost burros braying at the moon.
Clip– clop, Clip– clop…
Echo of hoof prints just outside your tent…
Closer…. louder….
“Huh-eeeeh huh-eeeeh!”
Clip– clop, Clip– clop…
Gosh, what a flimsy tent…
Picacho.
We camp by a historic goldmine dating back to the days of 49ers panning for river gold. Feral ghost burros leave scat around the campground, under a kaleidoscope of stars. They made it here on their own long after the miners died.
