Blue Heron Lake

By John Ziegler

I woke at dawn.
Still beneath the musty quilt
I cranked the tall window open,
smelled the moist air coming off the lake.

I stretched and stepped from the bed,
put on sneakers and jeans,
the green flannel shirt over his white tee shirt
and crept down the stairs to avoid waking the adults.

I grabbed a muffin and an apple
and hurried to the lakeside
where the wooden rowboat was moored,
rods and tackle set in the night before.

It was the first year I was allowed to take the boat out by myself.
I stepped one foot in and pushed off from the shore.

A wispy mist rose from the black lake,
the boat made a cushing sound
as it glided through the still water.

A heron fished in the shallows,
its stiff legs reflected in the surface.

I watched silver-blue minnows drift
amid the swaying grasses,
heard the familiar clank of the oarlocks
as I dipped the sculpted oars into the dark water.
I rowed to the small island at the far end,
rested the prow against a broad gray rock
just above the surface.

Chain pickerel cruised in the lily pad forest.
Sunfish, with blue and orange iridescent scales
reflected the early sun
as they turned above their nests.
On the first cast, my lure was torn from the line
by something that swirled the water
and disappeared below.

The fourth cast fooled a good sized bass,
my racing line cut the surface,
the tug of the fish excited me.

I landed the thick black fish, admired its muscle and shine
as it lay on the floor of the boat,
its mouth pulling for air.

I unhooked and released the fish
into the tannin-stained water
and rested my rod on the wooden seat.

In the silence, I noticed a pair of golden frog eyes
just above the water,
a green nose, shiny and wet.

Dragonflies hovered and dipped
among the yellow lily blossoms,
curled their segmented tails.

Hidden birds called from the leafy trees,
as the morning warmed
and thick white clouds collected above.
I felt something new come upon me and opened to it.
No longer separate from the world around me
the world was within and I was the world.

I felt a stirring in my loins,
smiled into the sky and tingled.

John Ziegler is a poet and painter living in a small mountain town in Northern Arizona.