Awoke this morning to the Colques burning trash. Maxi with headphones on kicking the barrel. By lunchtime the paint all burned off. I thought about 22 different attitudes I could take towards the smoke. Bruce Lee reflected in Enter the Dragon mirrors. On a run at sunset, the shadows getting longer. New snow on the ridge at Piltri. Earlier this week, writing about Menorahs. Segundo back in New York reading Snyder, something about tribes. Nobody left at his Moms to rake leaves. The oldest, the oldest, the oldest son. Inventing words today, the panz. Lau in the shotgun seat coming back from Epuyen, peaceful, smiling. I kept imagining a barrel for burning thoughts. Seemed to work, I was less nervous than usual. The girls in the other room now watching a movie.  At the beginning of my run, chased by teros . Epuyen at midday, nobody around. Snowline maybe 2,600 feet, where were the condors? One thought not burned: a plastic bottle I’d found after almost drowning. So  far off the map I was happy to see it. The grandkids were all over at Adelas pitching shit into the fire. Meanwhile I sawed lengths of fenceboards to block where the dogs keep nosing into our trash. This whole week scowling at fucking dogs. Sol pregnant again, who will take care of this next litter? Epuyen at noon, jumping in after looking at the snowline. A cold yelp echoing into the valley, into the universe. The smoke from the shit fire 10 miles to the north. Signs on the climb to Epuyen: TERRITORIO MAPUCHE RECUPERADO. Asking Lau if that recovery was ‘official.’ Segundo there raking leaves would understand. We need tribes if only to share jokes. The shadows gone now, the sound / smell of chicken roasting. Falta mucho? lau says from the other room. On the way home, buying 5 more strawberry seedlings. Plant 20 cm apart, trimming the roots to keep from curling. Sitting naked after swimming, thoughts burning. Ground level, the shape of the beach. Got dressed, went back to car and saw him. Down here, always, the one starving dog. ‘S’ok buddy, his snout down, tail wagging tentatively. I dumped the cup of Layla’s half-eaten strawberries. He was old but could still walk all day. No wolves here 100 generations ago, it was all glaciers. His ancestors from somewhere else, where? Back in the the garden at sunset planting strawberries. Wind finally calm but the barrel still smoldering.  Image of fur, ribs, eyes.