The Lake, of a Morning

The other day I was listening to a story on the radio.

A journalist/researcher who had the fascinating job of tracking the sounds and story of a “dying” town in British Columbia was talking about an old man she met while working there – a high-line fisherman who lives, like the rest of the community, pretty much off the grid.

The thought of what that man must see each morning when he arises to go to work inspired this piece.


Barely, morning breaks
A pale suggestion at the Eastern edge,
Periwinkle creeping like a sleuth along a navy wall,
Rimming tree tips, hilltops, sky

The inky water lies
Still unbroken, soundless
Creaks and croaks of the dawn harkeners
silent yet, asleep unburdened by their impending charge

The crunch of footsteps cracks the reverie
Unexpected, but not unwelcome.
Heavy with the weight they bear,
Sharp stern, woven mooring, wooden hull

The canoe slices the glass surface
Fractures the lake into a million tiny ripples
that reflect the purpling sky, sway the reeds,
wash the dock in cool, indigo waves

The gentle motion of the wake
awakens small inhabitants, moved to voice
The rasp of the cricket, the throaty trill of the toad
Join the robins and wrens to receive the dawn

And I, a simple bystander floating here,
Do not comprehend this morning song
But lie in the midst of it all, alive,
Awaiting the call to sing along



One thought on “The Lake, of a Morning

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