Place

Each tap on the canvas above is uneven. Some are loud and heavy, hammering oh-so-slowly, oh-so-steadily from bowed branches. Others are tiny pitter-patters that fill the silence between bigger drops, falling from the skies beside the trees – every knock a reminder of just how dry the blankets are inside. Inside, away from the rain and the mist and the wet of the ocean, the tent is warm. Beaten cloth circulates breath and body heat like a thermos, until even the tip of my naked nose is comfortable. The damp is meaningless.

Mulch brown walls muffle the light, filtering what’s left of the sunshine until all there is to see are outlines of arms and legs and sweaters rolled into corners, collecting the runoff of human humidity and effectively ruining the possibility of staying warm once breakfast rolls around – though the uniform grey makes time impossible to tell and the down blankets render it irrelevant. The foot of heavy of heavy air settled on our faces leaves space to cushion each pointed drop and every half beat of rain, keeps us from unzipping the flap door and leaving our canvas cocoon. So the morning is forgotten.