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The gypsy caravan sways down the green path alongside a cold, clear river. Up the winding road it goes, down the twisting highway it turns and keeps on going, until finally they arrive!

It is the perfect camp to spend the night.  They were lucky, yes, because this is midsummer and it is scorching hot around here and it is that time of year again when every gypsy on this precious earth of God comes out of their houses and apartments and buildings and shelter and wherever they may live, and head out to the woods and forest and mountains and rivers, looking for a respite from the sun… and thus, every campsite and every campground out there under this precious earth of God must probably would be occupied or taken or no-space-for-you-thank-you-very-much-goodbye… but, as I was saying before I got lost on my track, this time, the wild-haired gypsy girl and her beau, the Fisherman, were extra lucky… lucky to not only having found a place to spend a night or two, but having found that special place in the forest up the mountains lost somewhere in this precious earth of God they had set their hearts upon finding in the first place. 

The perfect spot—a campsite by the river—that part of the river where the water runs gentler and clearer and where the singing rocks lives.

You see, they’ve been here before.  They had camped here many a time before.  The place holds a nosegay of memories like some sacred bouquet of remembrances and happy moments that will forevermore live in their hearts. 

The wild-haired gypsy girl remembers camping here as a young mom; her precious brood just babies; her Fisherman in his younger days a bushy head full of dark hair; always brave always gentle… she remembers the wild Arrowleaf Balsamroot blooming in mid-summer and the voice of the river; low and reticent revealing its deep, green secrets at 2:00am—the sound of rushing water a magic thing. A magic, moving, living part of the very earth itself; still embalmed in her soul.  

The gypsy girl remembers, too, puffy-eyes-fussy hair friends waking up along her tent, and walking by her side along the tracks of time her dear father and mother on this same very campsite… right here; right in this same spot by the campfire and night ghosts.  All of them gone now; gone here or there; gone wherever life may have taken them who knows where somewhere beyond the blue. Because life is just like that—one day we are and the following we are not.  Day pass, history changes, hearts substitute feelings and dreams cease to be.

   

And thus into the wild they went, loosing their way, finding their soul.