6:21 am: Remnant taste of blood, drying up at first light. The evening's failed hare kill left my stomach in tatters, body collapsed at the foot of a naked oak by nightfall.
Woke this morning to a quiet gathering of white-legged Plins. Watched mist curl up from the rim of Nivelle Creek and trundle away toward foothills with no names. Here I wait, on the edges of Cherchebruit, hidden amid acrid dung heaps and couch grass. The air feels damp and forgiving.
One week has come and gone. Still wandering ragged and alone, caught between the banks of the Nive and the unmarked Spanish frontier. I bear naught but an oxhide satchel and a bloodless wolf gaze.
O, gentle and pungent brothers: a little warmth!
Map coordinates.
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