The sun awakens us as it swells just beneath the eastern canopy of white pine hemlock and birch. The orange glow from the rising sun resonates with the soft reflections off the knotty pine ceiling boards. A crow, disturbed from his roosting slumber caws to greet the day and the chickadees begin their gleeful chirps. The river's current sends gently lapping waves onto the broken rock edge of the barrier island just beyond our open window and the crickets rhythmic symphony begins to fade. A train whistle forlornly sounds far off in the vast woodlands beyond the northern shore of this pulsing threaded waterway, reminding us that there is commerce and industry, and productivity, and markets seeking goods, but just not here on our island retreat. The soft colored pink granite outcroppings around the island's edge and the lush forest floor full of ferns and moss, and decaying organic matter, all swirling in the almost tactile eastern humidity are all so different from our usual domicile that the transition from sleeping to waking is suffused with uncertainty and mystery. Am I awake yet, or still dozing? But then, the low throbbing of a small boat motor drifts over the water as the last wispy fog of morning evaporates and I know a new day has begun.
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