From July 23-26, I was on a camping trip with friends. I wrote this and the following posts in my journal, writing by headlamp light before turning in for the night or out on the water, trying to write without dropping my paddle or capsizing my kayak:
At tonight, the sun was low on the western horizon. A handful of clouds decorated the sky, arranged and colored artfully as if by some knowing hand. Loons wailed. An owl questioned. We may have even heard a wolf howling. My three friends nearby stood at the lake’s edge, sending out their fishing lines. It was a scene to commit to memory. But what do I recall most of all? Thinking that it was Violet’s bedtime, and it hurt not to be there to kiss her good night.