At the edge of Packer Lake

The window between autumn and winter is quickly closing. Only yesterday it was summer. Winds are lifting the treetops and sweeping diamond lights across the lake. Birds reclaim homesteads, crying raucous above the silence.

Human sounds have retreated replaced by the sounds of creaking pine limbs and bird voices. The lake laps at the shoreline. Boats sit empty longing for the return of spring. A doe, with liquid black eyes, moves past without a sound and nibbles fading willow and grasses.

Dry pine needles rain down.

Snow flies soon.

Barbara L. Steinberg
September 16, 2013
Packer Lake Lodge