Whispers in the Mist

At the first glow of dawn, I push away from the pier. I can taste the thick fog nestled on the lake like whipped cream on a piece of pie.

I push the oars across the windless mirror. Bullrushes raise from the water like the whiskers of a cat. As I pass through them, they part, explore the edges of my boat and whisper, Who is thissssss? I wonder if I’m the only person in the world gliding through bullrushes at this moment. These sounds are a gift, I am blessed to hear them. I am blessed to notice.

Waterfowl decoys are placed in several puddles at the thirty-yard sticks (3) we put in place. This predetermined distance means we don’t have to guess in the darkness and fog.

My boat is hidden along the shoreline bogs. Still dark, the lake remains cloaked in fog, but the dwindling stars can see me when I look straight up.

Ducks whistle past unseen and my adrenalin spikes as I take my comfortable seat. No, it’s more than a seat, it’s one of my happy places, a pew for one, front row for sunrise in natures infinite cathedral.

Shafts of sunlight begin poking through the hardwoods on east shore, warm fingers fiddling through the vagueness. Soon the fog is a rolling mist, then spiraling columns pulled skyward like the strings on a marionette.

And so flies my soul.