Dear Wigleaf,

Horseshoes, s'mores, the cry of loons. This is camp and these are our days.

My wife and I run in the early mornings. Things we see for sale for cash in yards along our route: a spiral staircase, $600 OBRO; 52" backhoe tires (2), $300. Earlier, in town, leather motorcycle overalls, $25 thrift. Everything has an appealing, back-of-the-envelope feel up here. I need these things, Wigleaf. I want to hold, control them, determine use later. To use work jargon I've escaped this week, put a pin in them. For a thousand dollars, less, I could... what? My wife wonders. She is reasonable, I am not; but even she is stumped by non-insulting staircase offers. We run. Finished, we slam our palms on the road sign and scream Matthew Klam's name because he's published a book again, a good one, after 17 years. This is what it's like. We run. She swims. I read.

This morning it was Adam Johnson's Fortune Smiles at the picture window. (Have you read it, Wigleaf? I know you have. Like Neil Young said of "Like a Hurricane": It soars, Wigleaf. It soars.) My wife, finished swimming, showers. Something large flies by, low and fast over the dock where the neighbor girl stepped on a fish hook. Have you seen an eagle? I'd seen three, now four. Enormous! They have real legs. Swooping, the size of a child falling from the sky. Then up. "Eagle! An eagle! Eagle!" I'm shouting. Running, I'm out the door, on the deck. White tail feathers. Founding fathers. U.S. currency. Still large, so large above the tree line flying.

It's gone, Wigleaf. My wife arrives in a towel, out of breath, too late, the eagle is around the bend.

- - -

Read Russell's story.

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