Sun's shoulders rise pink against the ridge. Owls glide toward feathered troves of small white bones. My daughter listens to the canticle of crickets, bright page of pictures on her lap, lower lip soft between her teeth. She's searching for a list of hidden things—slice of bread sketched into a fish's scales, campfire scrawled inside the broad green belly of a bush. She circles each discovery, marking it found, as if finding were as easy as looking, as if the outline could define the thing itself, her fleeting silhouette traced on the back of the waking sky.