Like from a boiling culdron, the mist burns off the lake every morning. I would feel cheated of part of a day if I missed it. The mist brings those perfect sentences---the ones that appear on the inside of my forehead when I'm away from the computer---the ones that send me running to my manuscript---that elevate my heartbeat----that are responsible for the ridiculous amount of time I spend honing the imperfect ones.
The mist swirls, billows, and puffs upward, or travels in long straight lines back and forth across the lake like the security queue at the airport, until somehow it wafts away without my knowing. This morning it leaves behind a perfect mirror that reflects the opposite shore in fine enough lines to show single clumps of leaves and the details of a rock wall. Three geese, like six, fly low across the mirror. And all the while the song sparrow sings F-F-f-f-f-f-C#/D-C-C. Again and again. dkm
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