We walk all day and sleep in the fields at night. We don't hurry. There's no need. Sandy and Mario have learned to harmonize. I don't know many of the songs they sing. Mario says they're folk songs from all over. Yesterday we were in country open enough to see the sun pop over the horizon. Some of our group had never seen that. Only dim city sunrise. Rick said some people in the city probably think the sun rises with the elevator light. Joking, of course ! Something about our outer poverty has sharpened our sense of exquisite small things and majestic things like the sun rising. Our Earth turns constanly like a restless sleeper and we are carried along. What's lost to us now is pattern and mediocrity. Sandy and Mario are singing the one song of their collection I remember . . . "down in the valley . . . valley so low . . . hear the wind blow . . .

The full moon rose huge tonight. Deep orange color. Now it's higher, with colder light. Bright enough to write by. I watch Rick sleeping. Long shadows of bare branches scrawl across him in unknown script. The fields are frozen in stillness at night now. All creatures are in snug holes of one sort or another. Birds have evacuated before the wind for sunnier lands. I did hear one strange call. A stoic bird as austere as winter. Down on the highway heavy trucks pass vibrating the ground we lie on. I can't see their lights. Only a delicate rise and fall in the shades of night. My stomach is empty but quiet.