However much I strain my ears, I can't fathom the nighttime howling from the hills. Barbed wire fences coil around the village. All the ground outside is pocked like a field of molehills after a rainstorm. Armed British soldiers fill out the picture. I lay at the edge of the woods where the sewage gardens end.
Deep fissures rend the trunks of the huge eucalyptus trees abutting the kibbutz fence.
The resin drips, the aroma is good, the bark is rough to the touch. By the concrete post at the gate nearby some people are crouching. There are cries and shouts. Someone screams during lulls in the shooting while other run. Shivers score my back, etched forever like scars deep into my memory and impressed into the dramas of my dream.