081413 #worm It's true. They've walked for hours. They have no way to know which way the lake lies. Seen from above, they seem to circle like autumn flies. Passing a jug of wine back and forth, they tread and retread the same acre and a half of woolly wood until the dawn's last constellations, muttering about the trash pickup, it's late again, go slinking into anonymity. But what else are they going to do? They walk on.