Now where do you run?
Where do you hide?
Where do you go 
when you need a hole to crawl in?
Where do you go?
— the prophet david collings

Dammit, he says for the hundredth time. I’m his worst nightmare.

I’m running the Ed loop, a one-third mile homemade track at the bird park. I’m toodling at a  nudge under 15-minute pace, so I come up on his homestead every five minutes, give or take a Garmin.

He’s peeking out, having dashed into his cubby the last time I came by. I’m guessing he hides in fear for three minutes, tentatively comes up near the entrance, then pokes his head out just in time for me to approach him again, sending him scurrying back into his fortress of solitude.

We repeat this dance lap after lap, day after day, life after life.

There is nothing to fear but fear itself, Fozzie Bear once said while driving cross-country in a Studebaker with a frog.

I suppose fear is just part of living. One lap at a time. And still, we fear.

Dammit, we say in unison.

He dives into his hole; I dodge the baseball players’ errant missiles. Immersed in our nightmares, neither of us learning a damn thing. Wocka wocka.