Poetry in the Fog

I thought that as well as putting pictures and other news from our life up here, I might occasionally sprinkle that with some stuff that either I or Sara wrote somewhere along the line. I'd ask you if that was okay but last time I checked, Blogger said I was The Administrator of this site, and therefore I get to do whatever I want to. Some might ask why I don't post what I write over at that other site. The reason for that is that some of the stuff I might put up here has little or nothing to do with "Throwing the Word." It could be on nature and outdoorsy things, or it could even be a little short story or two. So without further ado, here is a little something I wrote a while ago. In fact (in a twist of irony) I did post this over at the other site, but I wanted to post it here too (and I'm The Administrator, remember?!).


Poetry in the Fog
There is no sound quite like a canoe being rowed through the foggy stillness of the early morning. The barely audible noise of the bow cutting through the dark glass of still water, and the sound of the paddles as they occasionally bump into the sides of the boat, inspire the romance of man and nature. I would prefer the slower mode of river transportation in contrast with the gasoline powered, smoking, and chugging little john boats simply because of its silence, and its peacefulness. In the dark pre light of the day, with the cold breath of the fog on the back of my neck, the quiet of the river is majestic. Each swift black current breathes a good morning as I continue downstream.

The wet grass, the cold tinge of dark night, and lonely splash of a fish somewhere out in the fog inspire a feeling of freshness in the world. In such a place, the stress of any other kind of life cannot survive. It is starved for worry, and the plastic desires that seem so necessary in our busy lives. And so it is shed like a heavy coat. The experience of an old world waking into a new day is almost too much to take in.

Ahead there is an island looming, right in the middle of the river. I know it is coming because I have seen it many times before, in the daylight. As the canoe crosses the deep pool of water, I have to decide which side of the island to travel down. On the right, the water is deep, and the trees overhang the deceptive looking current, which appears lazy while being very strong. On the left, there is shallow water with several shoal banks, and underbrush is sparse on the shore. The right fork is dark, and there is a heavy feeling when drifting down that section of the river. The left is lighter, more bubbly and alive, at least on the surface. Who can say which has more life? It depends on the moment. At the last instant, the nose of the canoe glides to the left, as though it has decided for me.

The speed of the water picks up at first, and the chill of the air increases on my face. It feels wonderful to have the misty air pluck at my nose, and tickle my neck. There is no need to paddle, so I simply sit on the wicker seat of the canoe with my paddle across my knees, relishing the fact that I am here this morning. It was worth it to rise so early, and steal out of the house while everyone slept. The long drive over dark roads and only the truck drivers to share the highway with was well rewarded. And here, as the dark grey fog is slowly starting to change shades before the coming sunrise, I am alone.

I’ve reached the shallows, and the canoe is slowly moving under the trees. There is a shoal bank to my right, and I can see the dull gray rocks as the water laps up onto the shore. I can even hear the sound of the tiny waves as the lightly slap the flat rocks. Ahead, there is only fog. Then , out of the fog just ahead of the boat , I see something. Standing in the middle of the river, just feet in front of me, there is a young doe. Her head is bent down, the long elegant neck stretched as she drinks from the stream. She sees me just as I see her, and the head raises, and our eyes lock. I put my paddle in the water quickly, and I silently stop the canoe. I notice then that a little fawn is also there in the shallows, behind the mother. The two animals stand there, framed by fog, and surrounded by the river and trees. For a brief second, dragged out into a timeless moment, this scene was all there was in the world. It was as though I had entered into their own great and magnificent cathedral, one made of fresh, living nature. I had intruded on what could almost be called a holy moment.

Then the doe breaks off her gaze, and turns to the shore. She doesn’t dart away, but she simply walks through the water and into the trees, lightly picking her way through the rocks. Her little fawn turns away to follow his mother, with one last look at the strange creature that has floated into their little world. I am left to myself once more, and I am both filled with emotion from the beauty I have just experienced, and empty because such moments must always end. Now I am left with only a memory of such pure beauty, and joy that there is a Creator in this world who has brought such moments into my life. There can be no doubt that He is a poet, a master of His craft. This sonnet He has written for me is no great feat for Him, but to me it is perfect.

There is more to a river than fishing, and although I might have caught fish that day, I cannot remember. It doesn’t matter. If I had caught fish, and that was all that happened on that trip, it would have been just another morning. But the chance to see such beauty up close, that was worth more than any fish I could have caught. I have seen many such scenes since that one, but none sticks out in my mind. I don’t know if it was just the way the entire morning perfectly complemented the vision of the mother and fawn there under the green leaves, but the Great Poet certainly wrote a few verses for me that morning that will last my whole life.