Old Photos

Pictures of Rangeley at First Light

That fall day

I rose pre-dawn

and slogged,

camera-necked

through straw grass

at the edge of the lake

thick with ghost trails,

tangled yarn mists.

I focused,

depressed the shutter,

focused again,

assured

it was possible

to catch the swirl,

the held breath,

the call of a loon

floating

across water.

Surely, photos

evoke enough?

Their replay, though

reaches out

with color and light

but absent

the yearning prickle

triggered by the loon,

the curtain of

freshening air,

the speak of sun

mounting camel hills

on its way to sluice

the morning sky.

How, after

retracing

my frost-prints

I hiked splintered steps

light with the lift

of benediction.

The porch creaked

when I tiptoed in,

awake, but ready 

to reclaim my space,

to nest under

a wool blanket

and slip into the heat

emanating

from the other side.