Camping Trip, August 12, 2018

  • Light, born inside the sun, spends years traveling, hits a wooden plank and reflects, partially, into a photo-censor, to be stored as bits on magnetic surfaces, or waves of neuron information, or are recorded with paper and ink, later [editor’s note: now] to be turned into more bits.
  • A quiet harbor marina, dozens of boats bobbing in unison, the loud restaurant dominators the auditory, until a small Cesna interferes over head. Summer.
  • The fight was even-matched, we gave as good as was pummeled upon us, when finally a good guess turned the tide and won the war.
  • The beers are yellow-orange and light-brown, the latter a cool cask draft, hoppy and bitter both.
  • The wood burned in soggy early-morning soil. He blew the fire into existence. She tiptoes around it, the camp, a post night-affair fragility, the timid fawn approaching slowly and apprehensively the powerful bearded camping man.
  • Angled cliffs, slowly descending to the shore.
  • These boots – a ruggedized hippie sandal in various shades of brown – are made for walking, and that’s just what they’ll do, these boots are gonna walk all over this beach.
  • The well-designed driftwood ford inspires, reminds of a failed movie, but doesn’t inspire confidence to get in it.
  • An off-limits military installation, a pair of waders-clad fishermen, an expanse of beach between these.
  • The soft organism built up the shell over months, years, the sand reworked, resolidified into bone-pale surface, layers of it. The molecules parted in layers as the hippie boot crushed. A hollowed-out crabshell suffers a similar fate.
  • The loner on the ridge is a lookout, eyes roaming over the horizon, readying to take off at a… he’s up and with him a hundred more gulls, up and loud.
  • The green carpet is their domain. I walk and marvel at them, holding court together, all faced the same way.
  • Curses! The way back is through tall grass and swamp and fences, away from the ocean, the beach and low-flying black birds.
  • The river crossings are dangerous: we are quiet and respectful as we step over the streams of water.
  • The campsite at sunset, a peaceful time and place, disturbed by a single-engine plane passing low overhead. It and its siblings have filled the day’s skies.
  • The shuffling of feet, unrestricted cries of children as they play, random bits of conversation float in from neighboring sites, a hatchet thrown somewhere in the middle distance.

Leave a Reply