Forked Lake, Adirondacks

I haven’t since and may never see a sight
As cool and impressive as the one that day.
Just out of my tent, eyes averted from the light
Of the sun’s dim, but painful, morning rays.

Looking down toward the lake, I’d seen the mist:
It was mostly above it, but the water let
Wisps of cotton drift close, till they kissed,
The sheet of gray lake to white blanket.

Fog floated lovingly, softy above its face,
Then from it, two loons, then third and fourth,
On the rain rippling water with an animal grace
Alighted and landed and swam with it slowly north.

They crooned with a low, fluting call
To some birds still hidden by the furls of white cloud.
Then from the lake-edge beyond that dense cushy wall
Came musical replies UN-hushed by the shroud.

I rubbed at my eyes, my breath a white puff
As I blew on my hands, shivering and damp.
Then awaking I remembered why I’d gotten up
And slowly jogged off to the back of camp.