Yellowhammer Lake

Yellowhammer Lake.  That’s where I go for solitude. Listening to the silence between the waves of the breeze, rolling and subsiding in the currents of wind that brushes over and through the pines.

I lay across the granite and let the sun warm my face.

It hugs and blankets me, the cool of the rock collecting the excess.  I slip into perfect tranquility.

My spot is near the inlet on a narrow upper strand of glacial-polished felsic paving where the slope rolls into the water, down, down to the clear, down to cerulean, down to the cobalt-blue then on to the black, unseen depths below.

A trout floats in the clear, just above the blue.  He does not care that I am here.

Above, an eagle soars in the cotton-white-patched sky.  He is watching for his dinner.

Chipmunks and squirrels scurry past, chirping their displeasure at my presence.  Soon they will have their space, but now it is mine.

I go there when I need to rest, to stop all around me, to clear my mind – spring, summer, fall, winter. The sun is never too hot; the snow is never too deep.

I find peace there.  It is my resting spot, my respite.  When all around me is chaos, I go there, say a prayer, and praise my God that he has given me that place of consolation.

I go there often – though I haven’t seen the lake since 1972.  It’s here in my mind.  So, I go.

It’s mine.


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