August 03, 2007
Earlier this week, when I was vacationing in the mountains with my husband, I woke early one morning and slipped quietly out the back door of the inn. The rocking chairs on the porch were empty, although still clustered in friendly little groups, with empty glasses sitting on the porch railing. The grass was wet as I crossed the lawn to get to the shore. A mist drifted over the surface of the lake like the breath of friendly dragon.
I like a little time to myself in the morning, while the air is still chilly enough for me to need a fleece and the light is blue. How quiet the docks seemed, with all the canoes pulled up, the motorboats tied fast. I felt as if I were the only person in the world as I wandered along the edge of the lake, watching as the breeze made ripples through the eel grass. When I returned to the inn, I could see a light in one of the windows: someone just waking. My sneakers were soaked, and the bottoms of my jeans as well, and I felt chilled through as I climbed the crooked wooden stairs to the room where a dry bed and warm husband awaited me.
Posted by jo(e)