Goose Lake, Wind Chill -11
Blue sky deceives.
Birds hide under wings.
pauses on roof,
looking for somewhere
Ice, gray-faced, deranged,
waits for the opportunity
(c) 2018 David L. Harrison all rights reserved
Yesterday Goose Lake surprised us again. For the first time ever we were treated to mysterious round openings in the ice. Eyes? Sores? Breathing holes? Alien landings?
Anyone want to address this phenomenon poetically?
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.
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.
A hunting I will go,
A hunting I will go,
I’ll catch a mouse
And keep it in my mouth
And never let it go.
Driving home yesterday I stopped in the street and Jeff took this picture out the car window. The fox was strolling down the walking trail a block from our house. It was 4:30 in the afternoon.