Silent in Summer's Passing

It’s quiet here on the lake, now, late in autumn,

colors past their prime and fallen, and tree limbs laid bare.

The docks have all been pulled onto the shore

and the boats are gone, stowed away from the winter’s

ice and snow, left to idle away the dormant months ahead.

All is quiet, now, but for the eerie sound of a few loons

reluctant to leave, their voices echoing in the early

evening darkness or just before the rising of the sun,

the morning’s light still faint; and a mist rises

from the lake, a mirror this day reflecting back the season,

cold and mute, a faint echo of summer turned to fall.

Their calling to each other, perhaps, bemoans their going,

a sadness at nature’s migration to the coast, leaving

and leaving behind them, alone, the gentle brush of waves

constant at the water’s edge, leaf strewn and brittle,

a shoreline gone silent in summer’s passing,

restless in the stillness of the winter months

that stretch before us, those who stay behind

in the quiet of the lake, reluctant, ourselves, perhaps,

staying behind to idle away the dormant months, reflecting,

alone and still and restless.