camel dreams

me and my camel, we get along fine, we like walking, we like roaming. We travel a lot. Many days find us treading paths and following rivers, picking lines across the stony desert.

Many days also find us sitting on hills or under sparsely shady trees, sipping a little water, waiting, watching the distance. I can see something in the middle distance. I count things. I write them in my little book. I like watching the heat rise in waves off the barren ground, the mirages shimmering like water. It makes me think of home and freedom.

At night we cook a little stew to feed ourselves, though my camel doesn't eat much. I dig a hole for my fire. I try not to look at the fire too much too, it ruins my night vision. After cooking I put the fire out quickly. We huddle together for warmth, I lean back on her hump and feel the slow breathing or a creature more important to me than myself. I count the distant lights, and sometimes I fall asleep.

There are storms here, and we both hate it when that happens. We hunker down, braced against the wind, and I add extra layers to shield myself. The sand gets everywhere though, in my shirt, in my shoes. Sometimes we have to walk through the storms, and that is very trying. I don't just cover my face, I put on my goggles and tighten my straps, and trudge on through the blasts of sand, reins in my hand, leading my reluctant camel. Sometimes we ride, actually camels can see pretty well in storms, their long eyelashes help apparently. I have to confess I don't really know, because I never look into her eyes during a storm. I should find out really, because I've been thinking of getting her a pair of goggles of her own but if she doesn't need them I wouldn't want to insult her.

Out here you should never be too far away from your camel, and so I am always close by. A sun around which I orbit, whether scribbling notes in my little book perched on a sand dune or a rock, or stretched out beside her. If I go to a watering hole or uproot a bulb plant for water, I always keep within sight and come back briskly to her. We've covered miles and miles and miles together, sometimes you'll see us stopping at crossroads, while I get down, raise my goggles and examine the ground. At other times we might stop near the crest of a hill, and I dismount and scramble to peek over the top, looking into the oasis on the other side.

We range up and down this land, my camel and I, and the click swish of metal buckles and leather straps as we saddle up is the heartening sound of movement. We are alone but not truly lonely, though I am the only one who talks. She never says much but to spit or fart, and not often at that. I haven't grown tired of the endless rangings, everyday more ground to cover and things to count and jot down, and as for her, well I guess she was made to travel.

We get along fine, my camel and I, but sometimes, waking from a disgruntled sleep and reaching out to ascertain where I am or if I still exist, I wish she was alive to say something to me.