The lake is a wild and elemental place at sunset, mist floating on the water and draping the shoreline, here and there the call of a loon, the susurrus of a heron striding the reedy shallows, the languid ripple of pike or perch rising to the surface and then falling back into the depths in slow motion.
Old boats, bridges and wooden jetties, rafts, pylons and buoys — all are human creations, and in ordinary terms, they are anything except mysterious. At the end of day, they are transformed by light, clouds and water, and they take on the fey trappings worn by all things dwelling on foggy inland seas at sunset. Is it magical? For sure, and if the stuff could be bottled, it would retail for a small fortune. It cannot, however, be captured or sold.
When the scribe arrives home, she is still dazzled by her sojourn on the shore, and she is, herself, a bit fey. Sundown dances behind her eyelids, and the light is votive in its shimmering intensity. She still hears waves lapping the shore, and the sound is as peaceful as a bell calling her to church or temple or meditation.
We have been coming here for many years, sometimes on foot, and when big life stuff takes over, we come in our thoughts. Either way, it is always an uplifting experience. Everything we need, almost everything in the world that matters, is right here on the shore, and we return whenever we can, however we can. In the sublime words of Ursula K. Le Guin, we are always coming home.
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