Park we camped at on the weekend, a river runs through it. All literature you read about the park warns you first and foremost that said river is prone to flash flooding. “Save your children; save yourselves.”
No rain dampened our weekend, so have to rush to higher ground we did not. But the vistas were breathtaking, i dare say.
The camping area was crowded. The masses had come for the river, come to spend their weekend walking in slow motion over rough, painful rock bottom. In addition, the river was low. They were sitting in mud between stumbles to shore.
We hiked high into the park.
At one point, we came across an old burial site. I don’t know that i could call it a cemetery, exactly. Prior to becoming public 35 years ago, the land had been in private hands. 
Rocks and branches delineated burial plots; makeshift markers made from larger pieces of stone. We walked amongst them, beneath the unusually cool canopy. As we stood quietly, i said a prayer.
When we returned home, it seemed as though the chickens had doubled in size. We’ve moved them to a former rabbit cage, that they might have more room as well as grow used to the outdoors.
They’ve all four of them developed spiked shelves atop their heads that make them each look disappointingly like roosters. Hopefully, these flattops are but interim stages to glorious female plummage. Indeed.
