Laura Wilson
I didn’t think it would be this beautiful.
The lake, a looking glass,
mirrors the dawning sky:
a subdued brilliance of tender
pink and yellow, not yet broken
by the tearing of metal
motorized blades. Loons slip
along the surface, gently,
seamlessly, as if it were the sky.
My mother and I make our way
into the morning mist, intruding
on these sunrise rituals with our canoe,
watching water drip from the tips
of our paddles to form a confluence
with our wake. We travel without speaking,
our own restful fluency,
the air instead rippling
with the distant calls of mallards
and a whispering zephyr combing
fingertips through the tops
of the windswept white pines
circling the lake. I rest my paddle
on my knees, palm still embracing
the grip. The blade bumps
the side, sending small sound
waves racing across the water,
barely skimming the surface. My mother
stops her movements, and we listen
as the waves careen into the unknown
reaches of the river, connecting
this lake to another, to another,
to another. A path we will never
paddle, content in the easy cradle of home.
this lake to another to another
to another. A path we will never
paddle, content in the easy cradle of home.