The tent already feels humid and sweaty. Droplets gather on the nylon panels and the sun is piercing the lime green fabric. It feels like a greenhouse. The birds have been chirping incessantly since before the sun was up. Before the haze of first light had me cocooning in my sleeping bag.
Sand Hollow State Park is a migratory stop for birds, and our ears can confirm this. There are mating calls of all kinds slicing the air.
I groan and press my pillow over my head.
“Guess we’re getting up now,” Annabel says as she props herself onto her elbows, still laying in her sleeping bag.
“Guess so,” I mutter. I wipe my palm and fingers down my face. Sand is everywhere. Around my eyes, in the crevices of my nostrils, the corners of my mouth.
Annabel zips the tent open swiftly. It sings open until it catches on a bit of fabric. Annabel zips backward, forward, backward until it releases. The flap catches a breeze and the red sand and blue water greet us.
Ash bounds out of the tent while Annabel’s trying to get her socked foot into her Croc. She pulls one on, then the other. She shifts her glasses and squints into the daylight.
“The birds,” she says with her best German accent, “the birds don’t sing, they screeeeeech in PAIN.”
“What?!” I say, laughing the way only Annabel makes me laugh.
“Have you seen that Werner Herzog doc where he’s in the jungle? By like day 21 he’s losing his shit over the birds. That’s us right now.”
Annabel and I keep laughing as we clumsily trudge around the tent. I stumble by an almost empty bottle of Bulleit bourbon laying in the sand. I pick it up and walk it to the Hefty bag we have hanging from a leafless cottonwood tree.
I roll my sleeves up as I continue to patrol the sand for last night’s leave behinds. I’m trying to locate the metal camp mugs we used for the bourbon. Now we need them for instant coffee.
I find the red one, the one that’s mine, and lean over to grab it. The speckled, brushed metal feels cool and good on my skin. I pass it over to Annabel.
“I’ll get the coffee going,” she says. She already has the blue one in her other hand.
She takes the mugs and walks towards the picnic table where our Coleman stove waits. It’s still set up from dinner last night. I stay put. It doesn’t feel right to move quite yet. The morning sun warms my face and the naked spring trees hover around me.
Ash trods over and plops his bum on the ground. There’s a slight smile gracing his snout. I dig my toes deeper into the red sand as I stare out over the water to the snow-capped mountains in the distance.
The birds sound like music now.
