We are asleep at 6 AM on Dragonfly Island in the Mississippi River. A pink July blush has stolen the night. Bodies huddled in worn sleeping bags against the weather, we lie and listen to raindrops from leaves landing on the stiff plastic rain-flap of the tent. The distance we traveled in our rowboats is over. Here we stay, nestled in the log of solemn hush. Late last night, we watched the bowl of thin, filmy stars pour out, as dew poured upon the grasses growing thickly down to the lapping river-muck.

The birdless hush before dawn is perfect peace. Cozy trees begin to stir, elms waking maples and pines waking squirrels. Small stirrings. Cicadas fade. Then comes along a red-throated thrush, a gray Quaker hummingbird, a gull feeding her nestlings. A bird, which our bird-watching geek friend calls a king’s-piper, fetches herself long fat worms for breakfast. Wild violets, trillium, coneflowers, sunflowers, lacy reeds, and marsh grass about as tall as a Goliath, these all stir with life. Life. We are waking into magic as sheer and fragile as a spider-web strung between two trees. It is hard not to hear the love soaring on the wings of the new day’s clouds. A symphony of cheeps and chitters, deep throbbing and high warbling, chirps and chattering and chipping, echoes in our ears and makes us want to live forever.

We brush our teeth on the ground. Roll up our sleeping bags. Wolf down cold Pop-tarts. Sip Powerade from a canteen. Every muscle we have tingles with sizzling freshness. Who cares that we are marooned? We are free, and we will never leave.