Open water. Sun glinting of cat’s paw or whitecaps foaming. Shallow and clear, murky with mud, or dark-blue deep. Hung with the wet scent of dirt or sand or seaweed. It screams of summer.
Even in the early days, when the ice first goes out and the water is cold as an alpine lake, the lake works its magic. Just standing shoreside brings that expansive, freeing sense of adventure that is a summer’s day. Once I get out on it – paddling the canoe, sailing the wind – my dreams shift. Something elemental, something essential, stirs inside; whatever frozen visions linger from the white cage of prairie winter break apart and thaw.
The voice of the water anchors me. The lapping waves soothe, splashes delight, dripping paddles and foaming prow relax. I rock and bob and lilt and am content.