On the coldest day

Hi everyone,

Goose Lake, Wind Chill -11

Breathing hurts.
Wind burns.
Blue sky deceives.

Birds hide under wings.
One crow
pauses on roof,
looking for somewhere

Ice, gray-faced, deranged,
waits for the opportunity
to thaw.

(c) 2018 David L. Harrison all rights reserved


The voice of Goose Lake

Hi everyone,

After living on Goose Lake more than 28 years, yesterday I heard it speak for the first time. Daughter-in-law Jennifer heard it first when she took her dogs out in the back yard. She called Jeff and they came to my office for me. We stood on the rim of the lake and couldn't believe what we were hearing.

The sounds came from the ice, small burbling noises, like tiny whale songs, like nothing I've ever heard. According to a quick check, the ice was shifting. There are two unfrozen spots left on the lake so perhaps that left room for some movement of ice covering the rest of it. Anyway, it was a terrific experience and a new one for the three of us.

Later in the day the sounds stopped. Maybe Goose Lake was merely muttering to itself about more than one hundred geese slide-landing and tromping around on its icy surface. Perhaps it was singing a song of winter, of the new year. If trees could talk in Lord of the Rings, then why not a small lake in Missouri? I hereby claim that Goose Lake can sing, and it has a lovely voice.

Describing dawn

Hi everyone,

Being a coffee drinker I make a number of trips down the hall each morning between my office and the kitchen. The back of our house is mostly glass so I see the day begin, turning (cup by cup) from dark to daylight. I often post pretty sunrises but my cell phone camera doesn’t do justice to Goose Lake without light behind it.

Watching the sky awaken fascinates me. One morning what I thought was a rock under my birdfeeder was my neighbor’s cat. One minute she was a stone in the dark, the next she was a wily huntress in the first gray light.

So how does a writer do justice to the dawn? How do we describe the slow motion transition from night to day when our only brush is our imagination? Here is one try. It doesn’t do justice to nature, but maybe I’ll do better next time. Post your own effort if you want to. It can be poetry or prose.


Morning light comes like act two.
Props on a shrouded stage find their edges.
Black takes colors; shadows become shrubs.
Morning light isn’t until it is.
The star of the show peeks over the rim
to check the audience. A bird tunes up.
The day begins.