I’ve started to lose track of which days are which.

Was it last Sunday that I went west instead of east and found a swamp and a creek and tiny bones? Which afternoon was it warm enough to tie a rain coat around my waist?

When did I march into Evie’s room and announce that we were going on an adventure? The day we got caught in the rain, and our mother picked us up in the car and brought us home, and we made cocoa…

When did I walk six miles in the rain? Wednesday, I think. I remember that I listened to Bruce Springsteen and saw little white flowers and snail shells by the creek bed.

When did I find the pickup truck in the woods on the other side of the field? Was that the same day that I lay flat on my back and looked up through the tree branches and then tried to climb a maple tree and fell and sprained my dignity when nobody was watching? I can’t remember.

I know for certain that it was Friday when I got up at sunrise and went trespassing. In the snow. And it was beautiful. I agree with Aldo Leopold about the posted signs.

I feel so lucky to live in the middle of nowhere.