The universe is different as seen from a canoe.
In bare brea(d)ths we were slicing through the last oncoming waves and pulling up against more green than a romantic heart can handle.
We scampered across the island and into the motorboat to go pick up the boys, sleeping bags, and Too Much Food.
We slept and ate and read book after book and didn't spent quite enough time in the sun but there was so much green everywhere.
I spent the sunrise on the dock, one foot in the water, watching fish jump.
I swam as far as I felt safe, when the wake of the motorboats shook me I turned back.
In typical flake fashion, I had conversations with chipmunks and houseflies alike.
I prepared fish in butter and lemon and wrapped it in tin foil to put on the fire.
I hugged a girl who I haven't hugged in longer than is right.
I giggled until I fell over and tears soaked the oak.
I woke up each morning, remembering the canoe, remembering how we strode up to it, rolling up our sleeves and pushed it into the water and just went, never questioning if we would make it against the heavy wind. We had to get there and we did.
I woke up this morning, not wanting to be here.
In the city. With all those people, and their beady, blind eyes, devoid of the brightness of a chipmunk's curious gaze.