A soft pitter-patter on the top of the tent awakens me from my short nap. “Is it raining?” It didn’t seem the night before that there was any chance of that occurring. In fact the nocturnal sky was resplendent in a stellar glory of celestial objects, the view above interrupted by nary a trace of obscuring clouds. During the day the sun had shone as a solitary beacon, high in the cerulean sky above the granite-bound landscape we’re calling home for a few, too few, days. “It can’t be raining, can it?” Looking up I see a mosaic of short, finely edged objects splayed on the topside of the tent and my temporary discomfiture melts away as I realize what the source of the sound is. The cool night air has collected on the needles of the sheltering boughs above, draping them, I imagine, in a silvery blanket of shimmering reflections of the just rising sun, whose warming presence has once again stirred up the morning zephyrs, which now cause the more burdened of them to release their tenuous grip and spiral slowly down to the ground below, or in this case my tent. Not to worry.

I glance towards the front of the tent. The previous night we had unzipped the flap to reveal our picture window of mosquito netting in order to allow a free flow of cool, fresh air to embrace us as we slept, a welcome relief from the heat of the previous day. Now, looking out, I can see faint streams of mist which have collected in the night dispersing as the sun brightens the morning sky with hues of purple, blue and red, shaking the slumber out of all things, living and not. Listening, I hear the approaching day being heralded by the birds stirring in the forest, starting their daily serenades of chirps, coos, whistles, and yes, caws, even as the crescendo of crickets that lulled us to sleep last night has all but died down. The resident mockingbird launches into yet another libretto of territorial defense (earlier, when we tried to get a “front row” seat for a better listen we were soundly beaten back by a few strafing runs at our heads), a continuation of a longer all night opera. A couple of Stellar’s Jays start chattering down the way like two old neighbors holding forth over a cup of morning coffee discussing the latest local gossip. The run and tumble of the nearby creek is a background aria to all this and I ruminate about the delicious trout plundered from its cold, clear waters for last evening’s repast. I guess it’s about time to get up yet it’s still so cozy huddling under the warm burden of blankets draped over our recumbent figures. So cozy.