<--- Morning Glory, 2004 canvas and acrylic 6"x4" the view from my childhood bedroom
This morning I woke up under the majestic canopy of old growth forrest and a symphony of birds.
While rowing the lake yesterday, we spotted a stretch of white sand on the north-west side of the lake and pulled onto land, we had striped down to shorts and were soaking up the sun when I noticed the poplar trees above us flashing rain sign. I mentioned to my husband how strange that was, without a cloud in the sky I could swear the trees were saying there would be rain coming within 24 hours.
I shrugged it off, pulled out the harmonica, and began to play, badly.
He began to play, something on the higher register, and my dog went CRAZY! Bogart began singing and singing and singing. We knew he liked the harmonica, but never having had the chance to just let him groove with it, without breaking a dozen city bylaws, we hadn't encouraged him to sing along, much. I never saw him so happy, I swear!
The only thing I could think of playing in the register that excites him so was Little Yellow Submarine. He went nuts, he leapt in the air right over to my side and sat facing me, his nose inches from mine. He looked into my eyes, and maintained his gaze as he barked his furry little heart out.
He demonstrated a whole vocabulary of shouts, barks, howls, murmers, and a strange back of the throat kind of whining. He can make a perfect "o"with his mouth, and then most impressively, puff out his chipmunk cheeks and force air out through his mouth at intervals. I swear, he is some kind of musical maestro in a dog body! He is damn cute. And an excellent passenger in our small inflatable SeaEagle 3000.
That night, in front of our fire, sipping red wine I experienced my first, perfect night of camping. Finally, we had it all, folding canvas chairs from which to gaze at clear skies revealing worlds scattered like sugar across the night, a crackling fire and sizzling burgers, the happy company of a dog gnawing on his bone, secure in the knowledge that tonight, we sleep on a leak free, comfy air matress. Ahhhhh, life is good.
This morning was as clear as yesterday, no more sign of rain on the way, but still... we sniffed the air.
"So, whadya think? Should we stay?"
Putter, putter, pick up bag, peer inside. Sit on log, look around pensively, "I dunno, whada you think?"
We discussed what to have for breakfast, tossed around the idea for a morning walk, and got into gear. Breakfast consisted of hot tea, an Omelette by "Harvet Foodworks (innovative foods for a changing world)" , and one of those mini cereal boxes, I had fruitloops, my husband had corn puffs.
We took our walk, returned to camp, and silently began to pack up. Later, we mentioned how odd it was that we didn't decide to go or even discuss leaving, we just went. I poured out the last of my water, and thanked the surrounding plants for their hospitality as Carlos Castaneda learned to from Don Juan and climbed into the Jeep.
As we headed back to the city, and rounded the mountains we watched a black cloud descend out of nowhere, gloom quickly over took our sunny scapes. As we continued westward, back to the coast, the dark mass of inclimate weather headed the way we'd just come. It seemed we just missed a most nasty summer storm. I thought back to the poplar trees of yesterday, the plants of this morning and smiled to myself.
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