Glass Surface
Faint sounds, of
The morn chorus
And a lack of sun
To be seen. There is
No avoiding dewdrops.
Patiently waiting for
A simple touch.
A steady gray, blankets
Everything.
A low growl sounds, as
The kayak scraps across
The damp ground, yearning
For a taste, of
Its home.
A small splash sounds. And
As it pushes off,
The grains of sand,
Underneath can be
Felt through the paddle.
Almost as if, it should
Sing. The small waves
Ripple against the
Foreign bob.
The glass surface
Lies unbroken, yet
So fragile.
The line of trees
Fade away. Revealing a burst
Of colors in the
Sky, and reflected
In a mirror.
Farther along,
And everything
Has turned gold.
Loons cry out
Their mourning song.
In the reflection,
Seen by leaning,
Despite the dark circles,
And tired eyes,
Is beauty
For I am free.
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