Sometimes Bon Iver likes to pause before enjoying a meal, just for a moment, to express gratitude or share a whimsy, and today he wipes his buttery fingers on his lobster apron–the one I bought for him in Harpswell Neck–and closes his eyes, his lashes like the wings of little brown birds on his dirty cheek.
'I'm the luckiest man alive,' he says simply, and takes my hand, and we sit together quietly on the log and he gives me a squeeze. The air is new-spring cold, but I've never felt more warm.
And then we open up our tinfoil envelopes, burned black from campfire coals. Bon Iver surveys the brilliant pink salmon and new potatoes inside, flecked with good green herbs plucked from the mountainside, and he licks his lips with satisfaction as the steam rises to meet them.