Alone, early sunrise on Kushog
Amidst the silence of her sleep I found myself carving a path over her mirrored back, my paddle, my sword. This morning became my quest to lose my place in time; no other sounds were audible, for the lake was asleep. The wind whispered over the land, goose bumps appeared on her smooth surface as if to awaken her gently, the morning light trying to pierce through the early mist, dancing on the shore line with its infrequent glimpses. Her back now warming up to the morning’s early sun rising to announce the day. The night’s passions now forgotten, the new day bringing a new dawn, nature’s hand is drawn across her, the sounds of the land melodically echoing her joy. The leaves rejoice as if to reflect the whispers of the wind, how ironic that man creates devises to listen in on nature, where nature can orchestrate and experience her own music for our enjoyment.
Listen! Choruses of loons embarking on their song of love, each tune an octave higher, chanting their melodies for the rest of us to hear. Summer songs, are the pulse of her heartbeat. She awakens to the sunrise, her halo dances amidst the sparkling diamonds adorning her tiara of a sleeping princess. Good Morn’, a day for which I will never forget, her mirror once a reflection of time passed now alive with her trumpeted sounds. The birds sing with happiness, a morning chant not heard again until evening falls. Her pulse slaps against the shores, a true sign of her being alive, and a drum roll as if to announce the day. I welcome such luxury of life. I now sit motionless upon my quill that pierces through her spine. I’m lucky to send shivers through her as my path is marked by single splashes. Dotted musical notes written as a musical score on her blank song sheet.
The horizon line, pencil thin, separating her body from the imaginary exposure that nature provides. I’m motionless, as if in a trance. Happy to be engulfed in her magic, spell-bound by her silence I can’t get enough of her. The bow pointed directly at her soul, the perfect postcard. How is it that we look for images that create euphoria, a dream like place to get lost in? A place to go “ close your eyes and you will see” a contradiction of terms but how true that the imagination can paint such happiness on the canvases of our minds.
Time to leave her, a sadness of sorts; never to return to the same page again although I will visit often I’m sure. Her beauty unparalleled, her songs like symphonies of love, her peace the silence that one can only write about by chance. What a gift she has given me, Kushog. I love thee fair maiden.
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