Fire on Water

“Blessed be water, our first mother. Bless the humility, always willing to take the shape of whatever otherness holds it. Bless the innocence, flowing forth without thought of what awaits it.”

— John O’Donoghue

I’m floating on Kenai Lake on my paddleboard, smoke is pouring out from the other side of the mountain into the sky. It’s 6 am, an hour before the tourist shift starts. I trail my finger through the wet fire that feels like silk. Wildfire smoke mingles with clouds and reflects on the water. I can’t tell when water stops and sky begins. I’m dizzy. It’s hard to breathe, the fires have been burning for three months now. I miss October.

I first came here four years ago. In October it is the prettiest, frosted, frozen. The winter seals it like a tomb. Those who stay through the year watch in a waiting game for the glacier to melt into the holiest of waters, tide rising cold and wild, so blue. I pile on sweaters over a wetsuit and get out in the middle as soon as possible, the bears still in their dens above. The water feels like a baptism. Laying half asleep on the board, I watch while a loon, glittery in the frost, glides through the water. I love you I love you I love you. I make no claim on you, but a blessing.

My eyes follow the loon as it dips below the surface. The glacier melts into this lake, which turns into river, rising into…