we are in the land of lakes in where northern wisconsin meets michigan's upper penisula. it is hot summer and the whipporwill serenades our suppers on the porch. the nights are dark and quiet. the days we find the space to watch the wanderings of the bald eagle, catch the resting turtle on the log, row slowly through lilies, and walk long sandy roads with the light fear of the brown bear looming in the thicket. we paint with what we have here. the light paints the water and the reflections layer the light. the forest and the lakes seem to barely nod at human interference as the ecology of a day's cycle slips hour to hour regardless of our doings.
we paint feet. why not. we trace and track our way. the ants leave a marching track. the slugs loop back on themselves leaving spirals and unconcerned paths of least resistence.
the fish wave their fins over their eggs to protect them. slippery gelatinous egg sacks impossible to hold in your hand, impossible to capture in the way we so impulsively feel the need to do.
alongshore and resting back in the boat slip. fish tails for dinner.
looking for the residue of events
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