Sunday, September 8, 2013

5 AM

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.

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