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.
