by Susan W. Golder
A still lake in quiet slumber
stirs,
lifts its gossamer veil of mist,
laps a gentle ripple,
then a rhythmic flow . . .
a hypnotic refrain.
Fish twirl.
Trees hum.
A distant loon sends a tide of tremolos.
In silent witness, I wait; I listen . . .
Then suddenly, in that space, I catch the call.
Come.
Come.
Come.
My paddle, slow and steady, leads me into the circle of morning’s song.
A still lake in quiet slumber
stirs,
lifts its gossamer veil of mist,
laps a gentle ripple,
then a rhythmic flow . . .
a hypnotic refrain.
Fish twirl.
Trees hum.
A distant loon sends a tide of tremolos.
In silent witness, I wait; I listen . . .
Then suddenly, in that space, I catch the call.
Come.
Come.
Come.
My paddle, slow and steady, leads me into the circle of morning’s song.