Misty Lake

In the gray dawn, ghostlike, A mist rises over the lake Like a floating whisper. My shorts and tee shirt Are damp and clammy From hanging on the bedpost Near the open window. The dock is slippery, and The yellow kayak slips Soundlessly into the water. The paddle barely ripples The breathless surface. I am adrift in my imagination. I am a loon, skimming The water with its haunting cry. I am the Indian Hiawatha In his birchbark canoe. I am Jacques Marquette, Exploring the Mississippi River, Watching for Indians. I am a lone leaf, drifting. I am the wind and the air And the thick gray fog. I am the water itself, Calm on the surface but Teeming with life, as it Wends its way to the sea. I am the wind and the rain, The sun and the clouds. I am all things in this Haunting, misty world. As the fog slowly lifts, Lightens, and turns golden, I slip back into myself and Paddle toward the shore.