Notwithstanding COVID, I was not alone in my campsite. Strangers pushed into my corona bubble.
The night before my departure from Lake Livingston State Park, as I sat outside in the gloaming, I felt-heard a small rustling beneath my chair. Discounted it. Then I heard it again. Pulled out my phone and hit the flashlight feature. Who - what - goes there? I panned the leafy floor.
A frog.
The next morning, as I broke camp, other site mates revealed themselves.
Tucked into the space between my tent roof and the rain fly, a walking stick.
Gripping the side of my colorful tablecloth - a sentimental artifact from the road trip my daughter and I took to Alaska when she was 16 - a green lizard.
Neither the walking stick nor the lizard gave me any mind.
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