the four month island

Four months. Time dissolved as though it never existed. The days long but length retains little meaning when the daylight stays well beyond its usual invitation. Time is measured by meals (and time in-between) Breakfast. Lunch. Dinner. Each time new eyes set sight on the floating dock it was new; new to them and therefore new to me.  The beauty of a long day is that it is what you do; you are simply living. Living on an island of bears. Each piece functioned and thus the system went. Take a piece, even a small one, and the system begins to slow. This was the extraordinary reality of the island of bears. The energy was the breath. One day I walked by the outhouse, the one I shared with 11 other individuals. For the first time I actually took note of the door. Exit. Here is where you exited the island. That is until another comes along.  Out the wide crack you see them waiting their turn so you enter back onto the island. I watched the grass come in; the leaves appear on the trees and the remnant snow of winter fade. The first of the flowers came out; the dogwoods, the lupine, the yarrow. The garden went in. The loons wandered from the nest with a wee one trailing, a single baby.  I know the day the fireweed first started to bloom.  The day mama bear appeared with her babies. This year she had two.  I awaited the rose’s arrival, they never really came. I think it was a cold year. The moose and her calves; long legs and all. The daisies, white that covered the ground. Summer. I blinked and the  cranberries showed up. Mushrooms. Hillsides of purple and pink that even the tallest of men cannot peek over. I blinked again and the colors came. The fireweed nearing the top of the stock.  The birch trees began to shift their mood to yellow and the fireweed put on quite a display. The currents… wow. A windstorm blew in and  I thought it might pull every remaining leaf off the stem.  They hung on. The wildflower field was another story; it looked like someone had run a comb through it and parted the grass in a well -organized fashion.  The giant birch tree that lay across the trail would take testimony for this story. Mama bear appeared once again, this time her cubs plump and healthy. Five loons. They danced in a circle on the middle of the lake. The woods undeniably smelled of autumn.  It was time to send the fuchsias in on the float plane. The woodshed was tidied and ready for another long winter. The chicken coop got an overhaul. The days had turned to nights and the nights began to quiet. Down coats came out with the headlamps. Bags were packed and sent in. Four months over as though it never existed.