The Roof at the Pass

The last pass before the descent had a picnic on it: shepherds on a blue tarp with bread and cheese, a saddled horse grazing with her foal, dogs lying around like dropped coats. They waved the wave that means join, and for an hour I did, contributing walnuts and my entire supply of grammar.

Afterward, full of cheese and goodwill, I spread a blanket on the Niva's roof and lay in the sun in very little, sunglasses on, one arm behind my head, the entire Caucasus stacked in blue ridges to the horizon. The dogs found this unremarkable. The shepherds, with flawless mountain manners, found it invisible. The sun found it correct.

This is the photograph of the trip, I think, taken from the grass with the timer: the pass, the picnic, the horse, and one red car wearing a novelist. Tomorrow I hand the keys back in Baku and fly home over the water. Faster than I like my travel, but nobody argues a sea into carrying them these days.