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, but at the end of day, they are transformed by light, clouds and water. They take on the fey trappings worn by all things (sentient and otherwise) on the shores of 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 or purchased.
When Beau and I arrive home, we are still dazzled by our sojourn on the shore, and we are, ourselves, a bit fey. Sundown dances behind our eyelids, and the light is votive in its shimmering intensity. I can still hear waves lapping the shore, and the sound is as peaceful as a bell calling the faithful to church or temple or meditation. What Beau hears I am not sure, but his expression is thoughtful.
How long have we been coming here at this hour of the day? It's an incandescent experience, each and every time. Everything we need, almost everything in the world that matters, is right here on the shore, and we return whenever we can. In the words of Ursula K. Le Guin, we are always coming home.
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