WHITE LAKE
It’s like dipping our paddles in glass
So clear is the water, so pristine the sand.
We watch as reflections glide past:
The pines and the hemlocks in orderly ranks.
Three loons are reflected as well,
The mother and father with chick in between.
Soon they will hear the South call
And singly take flight to the beckoning sea.
A migrating monarch drifts by,
One of an army toward Mexico bound.
And what is our path, you and I?
Do we too respond to the warm siren’s sound?
Or must we accede to the cold,
Settle down in our comforter blanket of snow?
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