Where did this camel arrive from? And how is it mine?


At the top of the grassy rise, some buildings, and beyond them, highland wilderness. The village (easy, familiar, mellow) is far behind.
I lead the camel carefully, afraid of this big beast, but it walks beside me readily enough. When I tug gently, it moves forward. I know I have to bringthe camel, and keep it in line.
An old friend is somewhere out in the wilderness, unreachable. Sitting in a car and waiting for us to arrive. I ask these riders on horses, in their smart hats and jaunty shirts, to help us find the way, but to no avail. They're from the village, not the lost place.
The camel wanders off as I talk, settles down over there, beside the fence, with some picnickers. It sits like a dog looking for scraps. I make my way over, scared to take its head, (those teeth!) but again, it comes easily enough. The camel and all it's burdens won't be left behind so easily.
The children are looking to me to lead the way. I pretend I know where we're headed. A dog yaps at my heels in the grass.
I wonder: Am I condemned to wander this barren, beautiful space, keeping the camel and its burdens in line? Searching for a lost connection and a lost path?
Or is there another truth?