In the early hours, while the Sun was still warming Europe and beginning to tint the Lake Superior sky, I rolled across the little camper bunk and listened. Listened still. No breathing.
Drumming insects, rustling grass, cool din of the Shasta's fridge, waning campfires and something else - a vague, lilting rhythm. Saucy, possibly scandalous New Orleans jazz. End of the night at an outdoor party, when the only people awake are either too drunk to dance anymore or too sober to dance just before sunrise.
I wanted to join them, grab the conversation and run with it.
Man, camping can be worth the hassle.
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