The Lake

A square ungainly pontoon boat
Moves quietly off the floating dock
Into the afternoon sun
Joining a haphazard flotilla enjoying a last Saturday
Before the high lake surrenders to winter’s foreclosure.

A light breeze invites a gentle chop
As we navigate the small lakes perimeter.
There is something of a French impressionists painting
In the ease and comfort of our progress.
We occasionally nod, an adults passive salute,
To others similarly occupied.

Norfolk pines climb the surrounding hills,
Their scent settles on the water.
Beyond those hills
Blackened mountainsides bear witness to last year’s fires.

If we could hold firmly to the lake,
And the safety and grace this afternoon brings,
We would stay here forever.