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01/02/10 - (1)
The End of the Dock
The sun is eight minutes late to its 7:50 ascension. This delay isn't its fault but mine — vision's limitation, For the forest bordering Lake Nebagamon, Blocking, from my sight, its climb out of night, Its second rising of the new year.
And what difference might it possibly make to me, anyway, Since, on this mildly hazy a.m. (My last full day here, Before I call this trip, with melancholy, a memory), It'll labor, in vain, to warm this shivering land appreciably?
It's minus 19.1 degrees, just beyond my windowpanes. All I can see is stark-white silence's bare reality, Neither frightening nor inviting, so much as just there, A force to contend with, if I dare venture out, Intend to test my mettle, against its intractable presence.
All that are stirring, at this frigid, fragile, freighted moment, Are three black crows Flying back and forth, between the lake's surface And the giant pine in my cabin's side lot — An activity not apt to fatten their famished bodies.
Curious, I get up from the kitchen table, To check the thermometer, see if the sun's made a difference. Now, at nine o'clock, it registers minus 12.8. At this rate, by late April, when the ice should be melted, Or at least as mid-May green awakens around the lake, I'll be able to walk out on my dock again (Which, sadly, is dismantled, on the shore below, Its two wheel-mounted sections mired in snow), And sit at its end, listening, daydreaming, meditating To waves rippling, whispering, singing water-spirit songs.
01/02/10 - (1)
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