Rain Camp

On the rim of Lakeville Lake I set camp. A couple of good rolls and I'm in. On the other side of a weak hedge is a rack of canoes. I have a fantasy of sleeping al-la' Outdoor Life under a canoe, rivets and white metal looking up at the moon like one good eye. It'll have to wait. I was warned by a friend in town to avoid the area because of trouble with the local teens and police. A rack of canoes is too good a target for abuse, or investigation. I set the tepee. As I begin to journal the rain peppers the nylon fly of my tent. My stomach is thankful for the Dove Bar and chicken sandwich I bought, instantly consuming by the market half an hour ago. For five dollars I can wiggle my toes happily in my down bag while slush rain increases the attack on my tent. It is hard to close the tent flap although the rain insists. Hotchkiss is a large city across the water. It too has grow up. I once knew every hall, secret storage rooms, and rode the dumb-waiter up into the kitchen at night to sneak munchies because I was the only brave person small enough to fit in the micro- elevator. Now I know only the memories. By the lights in the windows across the water I try to measure the lives and dreams that prepare for the future. There are too many now so I put down that idea. It turns out that I did walk to Hotchkiss, and a water of reflection in between.

The canoe would have soaked me. Mud would have puddled in my bed. Some dreams need to fold their fingers and wait.