Stepping into the small closed-in gazebo; I strike up a match and begin to light the various candles and lantern inside, as the sun is quickly beginning to set.  I sit in the old wood-and-leather rocking chair; one of a set of two that my parents purchased in Costa Rica.  The other chair is beside me, but it is empty, except for the wool, patterned blanket – from Mexico – that is draped over top.  Once comfortable, I lean forward to pick up my book from the little coffee table.  As I stretch forward, I can feel my teeshirt pull away from my damp skin.  It is a hot summer, and I wear a tee and shorts every day to maximize comfort.  Resting the book in my lap before opening it, I can hear the loons calling from the lake.  "Hello?" they might be saying; or maybe "Boat!"  Listening very, very carefully, I can hear the gentle croaking of the frogs from their home in the little lily-bay just off the point of our beach.  I slump further into the supple leather straps that make up the chair, and I forget about the book in my hand, loosening my grip on it.