The trees, rocks, shoreline passing by from the kayak on the river.
The rise and fall of the canoe paddle in the lake to a four count rhythm, catching the beat of the universe, as old as time.
The feel of the soft sticky mud as I get out of my boat and step into cool water.
The sound of the birds in the day, and coyotes at night.
The call of the loon over the surface of the water, echoing through the fading light.
The sounds of water moving over rocks and through downed trees on the river, speaking in an ancient language that requires practice to learn to hear.
Boots on the trail, crunching on the small rocks, twigs, and leaves.
Sleeping with the stars.
Waking to the rising of the sun.
The smell of elusive sweetgrass and tanned skin warmed by the sun.
The taste of spring water and ripe berries along the trail.
After a few days I forget we don’t live here.
The real world is not our real world.
What is real?
Why don’t we live here, this way, always.