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Paddling to Plummer's Cove
Through swirling lake mist,
         our canoe's prow...
 Beyond the rim of pine and birch,
 dawn's fiery aura ignites the haze.
 The mist is so thick, we can hardly make out the water
 where our paddles find their grip.
 Pulling for Plummer's Cove, stroke upon stroke,
 this aluminum hull our second skin,
 we move as one within our craft.
 A solitary loon calls to the departing night.
 Silence thickens in the aftermath.
 Greyness gradually lightens. The mist shape-shifts.
 Now it is a lens, bringing all things close.
 We glide the last few yards, paddles suspended,
        dripping.
Beyond hemlock-hidden entrance,
    in stillness smooth as mirror,
sleeping ducks blanket the sandy banks,
    beaks tucked neatly under wing.
Now! See there, exquisite and aloof,
    a great blue heron!
among cattails and lily pads
        foraging.
We sink within the forest's repose
where all chance forms of sentience flicker,
drifting, alone, together,
grounded to the hull's cold metal.
Regally, the heron rises, paddling air.
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