I woke and looked at the clock: 4:52 yet I knew I was awake for the morning. I had the call to look at my storage tubs and decide which ones could go to storage—I knew the “nature writing” one could go because I don’t think there will be much call for teaching that class anytime soon.
I left my husband sleeping, turned on as few lights as possible and went outside. I quietly untied the tarp on the rear storage rack and removed the pink tub. I was able to deposit it quietly in the back of the Ranger.
It was nervous outside, a feeling of something impending, something of substantial size. There was a little gusty wind and the clouds were flashing faintly with the promise of lightning.
From the hills to our south, above the river, came a loud but distant cry. I froze. The hair on my arms stood up. It sounded like the cries I’ve heard on television when watching Bigfoot hunters.
Nonsense, I thought. Even if Bigfoot is real (and I believe it is), they aren’t reported around here. Not enough deep, dense woods to hide in. But the cry echoed in my head and I was uncomfortable.
The entire landscape seemed to be quivering in anticipation of something. Our new frog flag fluttered and seemed like a living thing, the whirligig swirled in the breeze as if making an announcement.
I moved the second tub, filled with my framed photographs and decided it, too, could go to storage. A barge hooted quietly from the river. The wind made a sound like rushing water in the corner of the campground.
I’ve never been nervous outdoors in the dark—at least not since childhood. But tonight it is nervous outside and I retreated inside our RV to write this piece, protected by the white noise of the air conditioning unit, blinded by interior lights to anything outside our windows.