I can’t see a damn thing on this island. The fog’s hidden everything but the outlines of our cooler round’ the fire ashes and our canoe flags limp with condensation, like a defeated army, dead in the stillness of the morning. Canvas tents heavy with dew – eyes heavy with drink from the evening past.

Recognize the sublime.

This moment which can really only exist in fleeting seconds, but synapses reminiscent of similar revelations. Awake and seemingly alone on this sandy island – I’ve only just set foot here – yet I’ve breathed the air of this moment for 25 years. Same particles, same heartbeat, but a different brainspeak –  heavier and lined with caution. To what end?

The morning’s not yet penetrated by human noise, only the echo of crows’ call and drying ink. “So familiar yet so foreign.” –Nahko

Wood smoke clinging staunchly to my flannel; the trees that burned for us consumed by flame to consume our hunger and heat our hearty meals and sting our eyes and remind us of days past. Slumped back into our chairs to eat and drink and smoke and laugh loudly under summer constellations that have watched us immersed in this life for an eternity and then some.

The stillness is home – and I am warm as a swaddled child, smile upon my lips in the translucent light amongst the chorus of daybreak’s new beginning’s. The shore laps against wet sand like symbols crash and resonate, while the birds cry out and us two leggers shift in our makeshift homes to greet the day.