Sunset

My parents' camp faces west. Standing under an oak tree, I can look across at an island that lies between their quiet bay and the deep, cold river. The bay is shallow and weedy, about two miles long, and the southern end is filled with acres and acres of cattails. My parents' land is a peninsula snuggled into the marsh.

A marsh is a wonderful place to spend summer days. Sitting quietly on the dock, you can watch frogs, turtles, and watersnakes. If you lean over the water and look into your own shadow, you might see fish gliding by. The tourists, with their fast motorboats and annoying jet skis, don't come down to this end of the bay, so on a summer evening, we have the bay to ourselves. I'll go with my father on his sailboat to ghost about on a still evening, or some of us will take the canoes to explore the creeks that wind through the marsh.

In the evening, the sun slides down into the narrow strip of cattails that separates the mainland from the big island to the north that protects the bay from the rougher weather of the river. This weekend, the early sunset was blue and purple, sparkling from the rain that was still coming down lightly. But within minutes, the whole bay turned red, the water shining with pinks and purples, the spectacular sunset that is, to everyone in my family, both awesome and familiar.