The dock and boat lift are out of the water. Leaves scatter across the yard and what’s left of the huge oak’s canopy, filters the grey sky.
A strong, northwest wind has whipped up the open water on the lake. Whitecaps roll along for nearly a mile before crashing into the south shore creating a foamy line. However, in my protected cove, the water just ripples. The reflected light throws off yellows and golds between flashes of the grey sky. It looks cold. Dark and cold. The cool clarity of Spring and the light green warmth of the summer algae bloom are gone.
The lake still calls to me. To test my skills against its denizens. I reach for my rod and reel. One more day of fishing before the North Wind turns the water to ice. The sharp air cuts into my fingers. Tiny white flecks of snow give me pause.
I look over my shoulder through the glass door and see a fire crackling away in the wood stove. The quilt mom made lays draped across my favorite chair. The laptop sits quietly on the side table waiting patiently for the me to create the next scene.
The weather man said tomorrow will be warmer with less wind. He’s been wrong this year as many times as there are leaves on the ground. “One can only hope,” I mutter. I shove my hands back into my coat and head into the cabin.
The warmth of the fire hits me as I walk through the door. “What tortures can I inflict on my character today?” I ask myself.
The writer wins … today.
Tales From The Hare 