For three days the wind has been hurrying everywhere, bringing nothing but rain and confusion.

Bedraggled families and clusters of beefy guys circle their canoes around the lakes, but the sites have all been taken by other bedraggled families and church groups who are trying in vain to dry their socks and cook their lentils and freeze-dried lasagna.

Even the white-throated sparrow seems resigned to despair and one drop after another falling right on his head.

None of this is new. It’s just usually not my problem.

Hollow out as many trees as you like, scrape the bark from twigs to find something dry enough to catch, hope you have enough fuel for the stove.

Hope the great cloudburst doesn’t come while you’re on the water.

Hope that when the others wake up they’ll be smiling and ready to cook.

Remember the burned spot where there might have been a cabin, the fish parts and quarter tomato and onion skins left behind by the last considerate camper.

Take a compass reading between your last shower, your last  vision of the good life, and the island on the horizon with the marshy shore filled with sedge, just the place where a moose would graze if the time had come for you to see one.