Lac Vert

A Green Lake morning

when the lake is still and hushed,

like a child in wonder.

All is silent except the wind

in the trees,

and I wonder if I am alone in the world.

But ah, the loon gives her crazy call and I know I am joined

by at least one.

Solitude does not last long – or does it? –

for from my spot

on the porch

I soon hear the cabin rustling to life.

Sister creaking down the stairs from our shared bedroom in the loft.

Dogs nails clicking on the wooden floors.

Door thrown open

as someone treks to the john.

Murmured good mornings.

Stretching.

The lake awakens with the cabin.

An errant breeze ripples the silky surface.

A seagull lands

jauntily

on our floating dock.

A boat motors across the lake,

out for an early morning fish.

I pause

from my reading

and look up to see the sun breaking

through the clouds

over Alligear’s Bay.

This Green Lake morning is slipping into a Green Lake day.

A Green Lake day is not confined

by the constraints of time.

Oh, time passes, sure,

but here it’s not measured

in hours or minutes.

We’ve no clock, see.

The day ambles on,

and it’s quite freeing – though at first perhaps unsettling –

to not know

that now it’s noon and so we must eat lunch.

canoe to the island

swim off the cliffs

rig up a worm and fish from shore

Go ahead.

Do what you like.

The day is yours, after all, and not the clock’s.

It doesn’t matter when you eat

or for how long you nap

or if you read all day in a paint-peeled rocker on the porch.

One thing is certain, though.

Boats launch at sunset.

I always sit in the point of the Alumacraft

my dad, the captain, at the helm.

We might troll Dead Head Alley,

pretending to be a school of hook-laced minnows,

or maybe we try casting jitterbugs at the inlet.

As our hands get cold on the reels

and our feet slosh in water at the bottom of the boat,

we point her toward a faint light across the bay

and are cabin bound.

Time for a Green Lake night.

A Green Lake night means

laughter

on the porch

as stories are traded,

retold,

exaggerated.

The clink of bottles

Maybe we’ll have a fire.

We tend to the insatiable flames and

alternately look skyward.

We see the stars as we see them only up here.

The sky looks like silver paint splattered

on a blue-black canvas.

The number of stars is staggering, really,

with no man-made lights to rival their twinkling.

Sometimes, instead, we play cards

at the table

by the rosy glow from an ancient oil lamp.

We pound the table when someone scoops

a trick with Big Ben.

And we laugh.

And eat crackers and cheese

And the brave ones try ‘dines.

After good nights are said,

I slip into my bed

under the crazy quilts Grandma made

years ago.

Flashlights click off

as the cabin settles.

I close my eyes

and then open them

but it makes no difference,

the darkness is absolute.

My eyes close

not to open again until it’s time for

another Green Lake Morning