After a while you forget. After a time, a check of the watch, a turn of the wrist and a bend of the neck, your muscles forget, your mind forgets, and then the delight of the new returns. Or the annoyance of the new. The long retreat from boredom, pulling up of tent pegs and folding the tarp, leaving the grounds empty and unmarked but for damp ashes in the firepit. Retreat from the bird that woke you up at 4am, cawing and squawking by the tent door, retreat from the horseflies and wasps that greeted you when you unzipped the door and spilled out onto the ground, retreat from the stuffy air and dim light, a rose-tinted shadow, a stillness broken by a snort from the next tent over. Distant birds, distant cars and the wind in the poplars carry on their own conversation, a series of whispers and mutters that recede as you approach, just over the hill, just inside the copse, just up in the canopy, just ringing the horizon.

parode - exode