I’m in the middle of the lake,
oars at the side, boat still,
not cold, not warm,
just water rippling me in place.
No wake. Little wind.
It is April here. No sound that isn’t Spring.
The water, flushed with snow melt
elevates me high.
The sky above is peppered with birds.
Shore shrinks, its house lights, roads,
numbed by trees.
Mountains mist up for sunset.
The price of staying here
is nothing but the hours that pass