Among The Reeds

Many people will look at the small bodies of water in the early pink morning and say that looks like a piece of glass, the mist barely two or three feet above the water, the sun just starting to touch the tops of trees in the west, the green leaves a funny shade of orange, trick of the light, a sandhill crane calls out distinctly and soon enough, there they are, the bright red melons like a beacon on the front of nothing but a white wingspan as the dogs bark and the bonfire embers from the night before can still be smelled and seen, small wisps, imperceptible wisps, once twice a largemouth bass will surface to devour a bug or a frog to fish it makes no difference, as we also can hear families waking up, soft murmurs, some crying, but nothing a little bacon and pancake can’t fix while the cold coffee swishes about in the cup and the oars creak in their locks, the whole point of the excursion being stealth and grace and quietly, nimbly picking our way among the reeds.