There Is Nothing To Do Here

One of the great joys of camping is being able to roll out of bed and take an early walk around the park before breakfast. The light is lovely, the air is fresh. Birds are out in full force, singing up the sun. Is that an owl? Mostly robins, some jays, the steady percussion of a far away woodpecker, a sudden mystery flash of orange high in the canopy. My steps are almost silent if I stay on the pine needles, and suddenly I remember playing Indians with Linda, her loud insistence that they could walk absolutely silently, spent their lives training for it, not like us, who could only try. Anything she ever knew about Indians she got from the movies, and she did go to the show more than I did, so maybe she was right. Almost silently then, I walk on the narrow path by the dry creek, full of light and wonder and song. "This one's for you, Linda, " I think. "This one's for you."

We have a whole day of nothing to do. Imagine.

Extra: I couldn't resist another shot of The Wild Turkey Gang. Gobble Gobble.