Island

I've spent a bit more time on the island lately than I probably should. Every time sit in the boat and push off from shore, I feel a little twinge of guilt. From somewhere low in my stomach, it spreads up through my chest and out my arms as I start to row. But soon the effort of powering the boat and holding course drives it away, and by the time I scrape bottom at the island, I'm only thinking about pulling the boat onto the beach and making my way to the hut. I'll want kindling, and a fire; fresh water and coffee from my stores, and a tin of something salty and food-like. I will eat, clean my dishes, and watch the fire until the stars come out. Then I 'll sing the three songs I know; the tragic one, the happy one, and the sad one. The flames will flicker down to coals, and I'll retire back into the hut and dream myself awake, and wonder when and where I left the island. And where did all these people come from?
     There are a lot of us, aren't there? Many individuals, yes, and small groups and large groups; clusters of belief and bastions of defense. I was watching the Canada geese on the neighbor's pond, and they seemed to be doing the same thing. There were posturing geese and conforming geese, geese with mostly family matters on their minds, and geese that seemed to be trying to drum up a following with load proclamations and preaching. Conflicts, of course, although nothing deadly as near as I could tell. I don't know what they were saying, because they're geese. But you could see ideas rippling among them like wind on the water. (That's a goose simile, which they don't use because it's very cliche. Obviously.) And predictably enough, most of their conversation would have to concern the fact that they were all, without exception, assembling there at the pond with the full intention of leaving and going South for the winter. Lucky geese.
      Today for the first time this season, the weather man has threatened us with "significant high elevation snowfall". I'm not happy about this. Only this morning I was reading in a gardening book about growing winter vegetables in an unheated greenhouse in a zone 5 climate. I was excited about this, and I looked out the window at the cold rain falling on the remains of this year's garden and suddenly I felt very, very tired. I don't want to garden now. I want to rest up for next year, whiling away the winter with the seed catalogs and watching the swirls of snow drifting over the barely discernible bumps of the raised  beds buried somewhere there below.
     And when I'm tired of that, I'll make myself a cup of coffee and retreat to one end of the couch. Some dog will jump up and curl into a warm, snoring doughnut shape against me. And I'll cradle the hot cup and close my eyes and push off from shore, dipping the oars into the water with just a twinge of guilt. Before long, I'll be well away. And soon enough, I'll be back on the island.