Home

He hummed along down the highway as he'd done a hundred times before. More than four walls these sandy hills had always been home. In the past it had been a place of the affluent, a place of the quasi-wealthy; now it was a place to get a tan, take your lover for a change of pace, bring your family, your RV and "camp". It was probably this sentiment that separated them: people came to experience nature from a distance, to him returning here was akin to slotting in the unperceived missing piece.

The beach bodies would remark on his physique or choice of beachwear, the 'hikers' would startle, silently annoyed his path through the forest was not one uniformly marked by park rangers, and as campers ate canned goods cooked over coal marveling the while at how 'basic' they were, he was but a shadowy sylph silently slipping by their firelight making another return voyage.

This he pondered thoughtfully as the windows of his 97' Grand Am slid down letting the crisp late summer air wash through him. Even the ghosts of other concerns flittered out as once more shoes were laced to feet, a key was tied to an over-stretched drawstring, and after a few bounding strides he disappeared both body and soul into that sandy forest.