Somersault windmills implore along gravel, lifting into sunrise met to maximize the short light of day. Fracturing cold so clouding breathing and shiver and fingers curled in gloves until the rising temperatures expand me across veldt. Midday will be a dry steady comfort even if not heat. The route crosses over cattle fences, heavy rig lift requiring leverage and conviction, for a welcome time lost in the hills seeing the saddle where I’m headed, chest cresting into wild sage, footfalls to holes and mud. Soon through sandstone cliffs and formations, exultant sky with the scale of Africa dismissive of the hints and relics of impermanent human intervention.
The bokkie tells me that I’m on the right way, but here—in wind silent floating dream—there wasn’t another.