Archive
08/23/09
Morning Mist
It's 6:30 a.m. What am I doing up so early, This still, chill-shrouded Sunday — my last morning here?
I have to believe that something made me awaken, Because I've preempted my alarm clock, By a whole half-hour.
Staring out the kitchen window, at the lake's placidity, I'm beguiled by a rolling, low-drifting mist. Silvery white, it hovers just above the water,
And it seems to be emanating out of Bumble's Bay, To the east of my cabin. I want, desperately, to witness the pine-blocked sunrise.
Suddenly, barefoot, in nothing but my briefs, I'm outside, on the porch, down the slippery stairs, In the wet, cold grass leading to the colder, wetter wooden dock.
Now, I can witness the sun Unveil itself from the scattering haze, Pour its flaming-orange lava down the sky's corridor.
To the south of me, in the direction of Honeymoon Point, I hear a crazy, clattering chatter of Canada geese. Suddenly, I locate them high above the tree line, flying away,
Toward Minnesuing Creek, on the lake's westernmost bay. Then, all that noise filling the blue — their wild honking — Coalesces into a flock, in a full-wheeling tilt,
Coming steadily toward me, as a majestical undulating V, Where I'm standing, at dock's end. They must see me, want me to see them, in their exuberance.
Before I can finish counting all twenty-three birds, They're directly overhead, low enough, almost, to touch. They want to show me something.
Once just beyond the dock, the flock wheels again, Into the south-drifting mist, then turns, midlake, and faces me. They descend, lower and lower, until each has landed.
The stark silence is astonishing — not a sound from them, No noise on the calm lake, Nothing, that is, save one lone loon's solo tremolo.
No more than fifty yards from them, shivering, I listen, watch. The vapor begins to dissipate, Disappear into the sun rising, lifting, climbing inexorably,
Until, within minutes, seconds, timeless epiphanies, I notice that nothing's left of the gossamer mist, And in its place are the lake's glistening, barely rippling sheen,
The Canada geese (floating peacefully, now, in a long line), And me, transfixed on the dock — All of us inextricably integral to this Wisconsin wilderness.
08/23/09
|
|||
|
|||
