August 7th
I’m back on the deck. It’s early. The sun has yet to hit the valley. Clouds shroud the mountains beyond the ridge across the river. The trees on the crest of the ridge are defined by the grey of the clouds behind. In a couple hours, the heat of the day will disperse the clouds and the sharp granite spires behind will appear.
After Midnight from the Cowboy Junkies powers gently out of the deck speakers. They play like the far off whistle of a train recently passed. Half memory. Soft. Half myth of an event. A memory, only a memory, without concrete matter remaining. As they finish a bald eagle flies across the opening in the trees that runs to the river. Low, skimming over the crowns of the birches, he weaves between the taller cedars. The squirrels start calliope of chatter warning of the bird. Quieting after he passes, they return to searching for lost pine comes.
For a few minutes all is quiet. A goose honks on the river and the Cowboy Junkies start in again. I remember the lonesome wail of the train passed hours ago.