Wait

In the corner of the enclosure there is a hole.

We cannot say how long it has been here, because we have until now mistaken it for one of the entrances to the tunnel system.

It is wandered to and stared into; we are sure it is not a well--there is not enough water here for that. The occasional flash flood may fill it, but whatever gathers soaks quickly back into the thirsty dirt.

Whatever it is, it has lost its function. Or else, this is its function, though we cannot possibly see how. No--we are certain there must be some part withheld. It is in the tensing of the limbs, and then the resting of them when they stiffen. There is a waiting. Sometimes, hands clasped at the edge, it almost seems as if the wait is for a nonexistent (or endlessly patient) god. Accounts vary as to whether the hands are clasped in prayer or wrung together, but these gestures (and their attributed meanings) exist outside of quarantine. Well aware of the distortions that occur within the test field, we try to avoid such quick connections and remember that we are foreigners here. What is initially recognizable are remnants, only, here, and from there, our study must build blindly.