The sun is setting, mid-evening, summer, August to be exact. The waters they are calm today and the great winds only blow a breeze. The birds are nestled in their homes, branches, brush reaching the sky. I'm looking up at the tops of the trees, they are a forefront for the pale blue dusk. There is a haze in the horizon, masking the treeline across the shore. Pink is starting to flood the sky.

It is daylight still. I am captivated by moving water, my eyes stray from the page to where the flowing is not far from where I lay. The only inconvenience is the load hum of the generator, buzzing and grunting behind me.

The men and children are fishing in a small inlet not far from here, and the women are sitting around a fire sharing humorous tales followed by the sound of laughter. One of the women strays to explore, she walks to the water to embrace the splendor or to keep an eye out for the men and her grandchildren. She returns.

The air feels a little colder now, the horizon has some scent of purple seeping through it. I am suspended between two large trees, one cedar, one oak. Another woman comes by and offers me some slight amusement, a little push in the hammock that I'm writing in...and for awhile I swing. I swing, my thoughts drift back and forth... and everything has become aglow with the slow setting sun. I turn my head and I can see it, beautiful, the sun is bright orange, the sun is bright red.

My pages have become damp, the air is moist. A little more, just a little more, I don't want to stop writing. Perhaps a change of scenery....

I am now lying in a teepee. I love the smell in here, it brings back memories of not too long ago when I was just a child. This teepee has 12 posts, it's canvas, not hides. A small size, but its just right to accomodate me.

I've only been in here for not 10 minutes and already I think this shall be my new sanctuary. It's peaceful in here. I'm thinking of my grandfather and watching my pen touch the paper, each word unravelling as I let it travel along the page.

There is just enough light in here. As I'm writing, I'm not really thinking, observing my surroundings and embracing the words like a security blanket. The hums and grunting of the generator are now distant. If I did not look out the small door of my shelter I would think that I was in a whole other world. In here, it feels as if it were that way. Another world.

My diction of my writing and my thoughts are calm and soft. The ground beneath where I lay is warm and comforting. Smells of nature ease my soul constantly. I could feel just enough relaxation to fall asleep....

I hear the sound of the children and the men returning from up the water. Its time to cease my words until another time.

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