The tripod withstood many winters, finally collapsing long after anyone had the interest or ability to watch what it'd captured. The camcorder contained magnetic tape; every time it reached the end, a little gadget would click and rewind the tape, and it would begin recording again. In summertime, critters would scatter at the mechanical sounds.

         Its angle changed after the video recorder fell to the ground. Most of the film was a blurred white after that - snow covered it for nine months out of the year - or pitch black - during the winter months. This made for a sad film.

         The camera experienced nothing, I think. It was uncovered by an Arctic fox one day and dragged to her den. Her nine pups sniffed it, licked it, and made a great fuss over the machine. When it clicked and whirred to rewind the tape, the pups watched it attentively; Mom had gone out for food. It was nearly pitch black in the den; the light signifying that the camcorder was recording had burned out years ago. The pups were soon piled around the warm machine. When spring came, the camera emerged ready for her life on the tundra: white fur, small eyes, and shortened tripod legs - to retain heat.