All that day scored by the undergrowth, which was as much within ourselves as the whipping and sly entanglements and a cavernous bush occluding any sky, we followed a map of a little sound, of trickling water until dark and slept when it seemed to slip from us.                Then in the morning, like a nest hidden among thorns, three feet away, a pool of still water, self-contained like wisdom, calmly held our faces as we drank. Russell Erwin