Box fans. Kool-Aid. Chlorinated pools.
The top bunk. A lake breeze fluttering the homemade curtain all night. Listening to wavelets kiss the rocky beach. “No digging in the clay!” – and digging anyway.
Mosquitoes in the tent, buzzing in my ear. Sunburns. Crab shells by the seashore.
Green quart baskets filled with strawberries. A garden growing corn, carrots, pumpkins, peas.
A tree cabin in the woods. A stream conjured up from the outflow of a drainage pipe, with plans for a fish pond and flower garden. A hammock strung between two oaks. Bike rides. Sparklers in the backyard. I am eight, nine, ten and the summers are endless.
The Nature of Maine 