Back briefly from the trip to D family cabin on the shores of a large placid lake which sits on the Maine/New Hampshire border. There was much kayaking and Loon spotting, but no pictures of the birds, unfortunately. I was happy to get a still shot of the river, above, without losing my camera to the muddy depths. I read In the Wilderness, by Miguel Rivas, or rather, let it pop and flash its Galician allegories around my head while I sat on the dock spotting tiddly fish and listening to only the clean knock of the waves against the shore. Ahh, bliss.
Now D and I run off South to the capital tomorrow…it is August and New York feels as though wrapped in a hot clammy blanket made of dog hair. It is hard to have a firm thought about much, but hopefully in D.C., between sightseeing and hiding from the heat, I can begin to dig down into a new draft of The Millenial. Or read. Reading for coolness and respite. I feel very lucky.
We leave the US, all being well, before the month is out.