A Shoreline Tribute

I headed for Moran Bay through the new, white snow.

The morning after a short blizzard.

My heavy black boots, up to my knees,

dragging a trail to the shoreline.

I looked straight toward Lake Huron.

It's cold, dark blue tucked into the soft, light blue of the cloudless sky.

When I reached Main Street there was no need to look both ways before crossing.

St. Ignace was as quiet as the bay.

As I walked I let the soft, cold wind touch the only skin exposed. 

My face.

The wind shared its gentle touch with the morning, winter sun.

Causing me to grin with deep pleasure.

This gift of solitude was filling me up.

Making my heart full and satisfied.

A long, burnt-red freighter lay floating on this fleece-made bed of blue.

Like a lily-pad anchored to its place, 

peacefully sleeping.

The marina still asleep from a long stormy night

with its planks covered in downy white,

was begging me with its silence

to let it rest.

I knew there was no chance of waking it anyway.

The deep snow muffled every footstep.

And I consciously kept my thoughts quiet.

I knew my breath was calm and warm 

because it caught around my hood,

occasionally fogging up my glasses.

When I reached the rocky shore the patterns of nature danced for me.

The spinning,

arching,

leaping,  

     

spiraling.

A ballet of contrasts for me.

An audience of one.

Carefully, 

I navigated the slippery rocks on the shore.

My pace slowing to a crawl as I kept hugging the shore for more.

I wasn't disappointed.

The light show followed the ballet.

The side-way slant of the morning sun 

showed off it's reflection in the icy patterns on the rocks.

The gentle waves flicked the lights on and off,

receding,

flowing,

        brushing,

A pallet of light for me.

I wasn't expecting death.

Its stark presence in the snow.

Arching its back,

exposing its sun-bleached bones to the air.

It's wings swooping in,

stealing flight from the living.

I never expected honest beauty in death.

The peace,

the stillness,

the promise of rest.

The end of life 

frozen in time,

encased in permanence.