eric@ericnagler.com

I'm standing on what might be called a lawn, except the straw-like grass poking out of the

sand is a harsh stubble under my bare feet. I look out across the river to catch a glimpse of the bay between the tall pines silhouetted against the dusk.

A light September rain is falling and I spread my arms, looking up to the grey sky, catching cold droplets on my face.

I'm reminded of that scene at the end of "Little Big Man" when Chief Dan George climbs a hill to die, Dustin Hoffman at his side.

He gestures a short prayer to the four corners of the universe and lies down on the prairie grass.

Dustin is crying. Dan George's eyes are closed (as mine are now).

It begins to rain.

We see the droplets splashing on his eyelids making him blink.

He opens his eyes and asks, "Am I dead?"

Dustin says no.

So Dan George gets up and walks back down the hill to the village, telling Dustin about one of his wives and her physical attributes which annoy him.

And as I stand there in the cold rain my partner tells me I'm going to freeze. I open my eyes and head back to the cottage. She asks, "Did that feel good?" "No," I answer.

"Then why did you do it?"

"You don't always do something you like," I say.

This summer I quietly floated to within ten feet of a beaver chewing idly on the shore, my body still, paddle stretched motionless across the gunwales. I watched a heron spear a wildly flapping fish with its stiletto-like beak, then flip it in the air to catch it head first and gulp it down whole.

I crossed paths with a wolf; I flushed a bittern.

But now the lawn chairs are piled in the shed. The canoes are leaning against the boat house. The dock is in. The fridge is emptied. The water is drained. The bait is set out.

The van is packed and riding low on its springs. I steer carefully down the lane, avoiding the rocks.

And in my rear view mirror the cottage disappears behind the pines for another year.