Wayne floats gently across the surface of the lake, fishing pole in hand,
held loosely. Leaning back, he rests his head against the lone, life vest,
propped against the end of the boat. Bare feet down on the cool metallic
surface of the boat, knees up and bent, legs leaning just a bit open, he sighs
loudly, resting the fishing pole lightly against his thighs with the long tip
jutting high up and over his knees.
Chewing casually on the remains of his, after breakfast toothpick, he
inattentively watches his line stretching far out and away from the boat, while
lazily scanning the puffy, blue clouded skies for soaring raptures and the kite
like wings of rising vultures, gliding on waves of warming air, circling higher
and higher, with ever increasing ease and unhurried poise.
Light, soft whispered splashes echo across the surface of the water as
fish frog and snake, leap and escape, feed, hide and play, hunt, kill and die. Muskrat
and beaver swim past, unhurried and unafraid, heads up, eyes straight forward,
as they glide effortlessly across the surface of the placid clear waters.
Loons cry and wail to the morn in sorrowful, doleful tones, regretting
the passing of the silent, safe darkness, yet welcoming the newfound day with
its promise of yet another night to come. Geese and crow, caw and hoot in
pointed, grouped procession and random gathered flight, soaring high overhead,
seeking open waters, or tall, piney perches.
Tiny finger length shad, silvery and shiny, gleam and glow in the bright
morning sun gathering in groups of hundreds and of thousands, bubbling and jumping,
churning the water’s surface as they feed. They in turn are taken as the swift
and fleet of wing raptures, bald eagles and fishing hawks swoop down from the
heights with talon and claw, to feed their growing, incessantly hungry, newly
hatched clutches of downy, new feathered life.
Fat, heavy oversized carp splash and dash hither and fro in the shallows amid
the thick verdant grasses at the water’s edge, submerged and flooded with
springs heavy rains. Dancing and swaying they mate, spewing streams of milky
sperm across masses of newly laid eggs. Bass and crappie jump and splash in
sheer delight at springs growing warmth, hopeful and eager, sure in the promise
of another summer’s full bounty. Huge, seven foot gar with jaws two feet long,
patrol the surface, sneaking into the shallows, hunting the unsuspecting prey
of perch, drum and shad as those it seeks play, infatuated with the mornings
joy and the newfound warm of sunlit dawn, momentarily forgetful of the danger of
the world and of deaths, clamping, tooth filled jaw.
Wayne’s short brown hair flutters lightly in the soft, welcoming chill of
the mild morning wind. It tickles the whiskers of his unshaven face, ignored
and unkempt in newfound and seldom enjoyed freedom. Reveling in the fullness of
temporary escape and blessed sloth, he drifts aimlessly in the kind, gentle
wind, bobbing and rocking in the placid, soft waves of forgetfulness. Occasionally
twitching and wiggling his toes, he smiles, takes a sip of his rapidly cooling
coffee, lights another smoke and thinks of absolutely nothing, his open mind
flooding with misty, soft nothingness, untangling nothing, configuring and
constructing nothing, planning, worrying and anxious about no one and caring even
less.
No sorrows tug at his heart this morning, no woman beguiles him. No pains
nor regrets of decisions past, no poor choices, no things gone or people lost,
weigh upon his heart. This is a pure, free moment, a moment of freedom and an escape
from a world and a life of pain and regret, of things not done, of things
unsaid and the hopeless mess of past mistakes, decisions that can’t be revoked
and consequences that cannot be changed.
Then suddenly, without warning, a loud, menacing, almost painful
screeching assails his ears, startling and noxious, pulling him abruptly from
his reverie. Rising quickly, he sits up, the horrid sound forcing him into an
upright position. Franticly searching his surroundings, he seeks the source of
the insistent wailing, frightened, alarmed and confused.
Moments later, Wayne staggers out of bed, gropes for the alarm clock with
the beady red eyes, attempting to choke the life from its cold, hard plastic
body. “Monday, already,” he grumbles, heading for the bath. The water runs, filling
the tub with sudsy, perfumed scents as he heads down the darkened stairs to the
kitchen Plugging in the preloaded coffee pot, quickly laying out three strips
of cold, greasy bacon across the blackened aluminum skillet, he returns to the
bath, slipping silently beneath the succulent, inviting waters.
Moment later, stepping out of the tubs warm, soapy goodness, he greedily
inhales the glorious scent of slow frying bacon, in combination with the fresh,
brewing coffee wafting up the staircase. He smiles the first smile of the
morning.
After his daily bout with the ironing board and the ingestion of his
first two cups of highly sweetened coffee, overdosed with rich powdery creamer,
he suddenly concludes that he is human after all. Looking over his shoulder and
the jumbled, tangled mess of sheets and bedclothes on top his mattress, he
remembers the lake, the boat, his bare wiggling toes and he can’t wait to come
back home this evening, and go there again.
The End
© 2009, Tim Wilkinson
Author Bio:
Father of two
girls, Mr. Wilkinson has been writing since the age of twelve.After spending
thirty years working in the telecommunications industry, traveling and writing
in between the often conflicting commitments of family, work, home and life in
general, Mr. Wilkinson now focuses more time and effort on his most enduring
dream, writing. Collections of his earlier works are available online, through
Amazon-dot-com.
Recently accepted
for publication in ‘The Path’, ‘The Speculative Edge’, ‘The
Global Twitter Community Poetry Project, and ‘Static Movement’, he
continues to write and seek new avenues for publication and distribution.
Links:
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