Morning Time in the Laurentians

The air's cold on my skin,
The sun is shining bright,
The shimmer on the water may be bugs,
Or a summer breeze, light,

The sough through the trees is releasing rain,
Having fell yesterday,
I can't decifer whose bird call is whose,
Nor how my future debts will all be paid,

The journey ahead is long and winding,
Gravel will shoot from tires,
To buy a coffee made by steady hands,
Available for hire,

But otherwise,
Who knows what they would do,
Assuming society cared for them,
So survival was not a concern, too.

This Is Not A Dream

Ever have a good dream,
Where there's lots of people,
You're happy and you really don't know why,
So much you can't keep still,

Then you realize that you are in a dream,
Which makes you happier,
You fly around the room because you can,
For you're completely void of any fear,

Then you wake up remembering it all,
Knowing it meant something,
Like it's saying you are on the right track,
Both in life and thinking?

What, you haven't?
Then let me tell you how,
All that is keeping you from that feeling,
Is not having read this Wath until now.

Day On The Lake

I saw my first beaver,
Break the surface of glass,
My movements so slow, like I wasn't there,
It continued to pass,

Then clusters of bugs shimmered on it, too,
As I glided through them,
Collections of pixels ne'er to return,
In exactly that configuration,

I immersed myself as deep as I could,
Silk soft tendrils touched feet,
Nothing to save me should they choose to grasp,
I'd not call that defeat,

P'haps surrender,
To what I'm already,
If the universe fell in on itself,
Would you call that some kind of victory?