I have unpacked my spartan luggage. A year has come and gone since I last sat in my red canvas chair at the top of the riverbank. I am at the cabin. In my spirit a sense of contentment is edging out the edginess that resides in me. Slouched in my seat I sleep a bit, scratch a few words in my journal, doze a little more, and then tune into nature's communication - that always speaks on God's behalf if you know how to listen. The soft breezes sift through the leafy branches speaking to my anxieties like a mother to a troubled child - shhh . . . shhh . . . shhh.
I am not sure this is a correct meteorological term but windstorms sometimes take an unexpected turn toward violence and form into micro-bursts. Like mini-tornadoes they can twist the tops off trees and leave a tangled swath resembling pick-up-sticks. Evidences of just such a rampage are to my left. One such outburst felled the aged white birch that used to lean over the river. The same birch that eagles have perched upon for decades eyeing the world below in search of their next meal. No longer gracefully bent it is now prostrated - its emerald wreath being stripped away by the currents of the Penobscot.
Just a while ago the sun that was behind me, then over me, is now sinking away from me. As it does every airborne insect is back-lit and can be seen flitting and dancing on a liquid stage. A red squirrel that's had the run of the place in my long absence nervously scampers up and down a big pine tree sassing this trespasser.
In a few more hours darkness will surround me. Kindling formed into a pyramid is in the fire pit. A match will be struck. A blaze will leap and crackle beneath my feet. A billion stars will flicker above my head.