October by the Lake Shore
Mountain Living
Yellow Beech leaves and red Maples resemble a shade closer to brown in the last of October, yet as I travel back into the North Country by a still lake on my way home, I am compelled to stop.
At the southern outlet of the lake I cross a wooden bridge, lean on the log rail engineered with hand tools and resolve, and I pause. I breathe easy.
The western shore shows deep shadows as the sun descends, a blanket of protection for fish and insects, and the center of the lake holds naked granite peaks in its reflection. Wood ducks sun themselves on nearby rocks and I follow the lazy current under the bridge until the traces are swallowed by the deep.
Then, I spy a gray-haired fisherman casting a fly from the shadows, tree limbs seem to curl over his head in a natural rooftop.
Today is Monday.
I watch in envy as his existence has pushed away appointments, cell phones, and computers, and all that traded for the steady rhythm in his feet that brings blood to his toes and keeps his fly-pole working the water, ten, two, ten, two, float.
I could easily wish to be 55, gray-haired, and fishing.
This is the North Country.
Mountain Water
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