Out on the lake alone in my canoe,
one solitary hour before sunset,
there's a fiery sun above me, cool
dark water and hidden depths below.
I make my way along the shoreline
and its guardian cliffs, a patient observer
of evening's falling, these timeless
oscillating rites of light and darkness.
Heron moves though the shallows,
and ducks assemble on the shoreline.
Somewhere a loon laughs on a hidden bay.
My paddle moves of its own accord
through the dark ripples, and every drop
falling away from it is a sparkling union
holding fire in its heart with thoughts of
past paddlings here and promises too,
evening sun, darkness and distant stars,
this lone woman in her canoe at twilight,
earth and dappled waves conjoined.
It's an unfinished conversation of sorts, the
drops falling away from my paddle forming
trailing dots and small silences in a dialogue
with its roots in the past and its end resting
easy on the quiet water somewhere up ahead.
Who knows such things with any certainty?
Lake and landscape are telling tales this
evening, but they seldom speak in words.