I'm eating a sandwich I've made of equally wonderful parts: wholewheat bread G's mother baked last night, dill pickles his brother and girlfriend jarred a month ago, and produce all bought from the local farmer market twenty-five minutes away by car. The fizzy tart drink I'm sipping on is a mixed berry sour from Grist Iron, a spacious brewery G and I stopped at on our way up to Canada that was perched on a valley overlooking Seneca Lake. We caught the sunset there and the sky faded to layers of rich loamy blues I feel like you only ever see around upstate hills.
A coworker kindly covered one of G's shifts last minute so we've gained two extra days up here, meaning I'll be able to spend the last few days of summer doing some more fishing, mushrooming, reading, and swimming in the lake before returning to our busy lives in the city. I miss it, but not as much as I'm enjoying being out here, feeling like an innocent kid on summer break again.
G and his brothers all get back from a run and I watch them jump into the clear and cool water together. The dogs leap in after them, their little furry heads bobbing like otters as they paddle furiously to catch up. I take a bite of my sandwich and luxuriate.
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| Moka's always got her eyes on the prize |