14 02 2008

On perfect Maine mornings, my dad and I would awaken even before the sun and head to the lake. As we rowed into the uneasy pre-dawn dark, Alamoosook felt leaden beneath our oars. We rarely said a word, listening instead to loon and owl, to oars clunking against the gunnel.

One morning, as the sun coppered the lake, we turned wearily back to shore, empty-handed, having forgotten freshwater tackle. As we rowed, huge fish surfaced to the sunrise: trout and bass. Fishhawks plummeted repeatedly to pull with silver talons the shimmery flanks of plump fish from the molten waters.




Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: