Log Cabin Chronicles
At The Lake
DOUG TANOURY
At the lake, These last days in June Are like living inside of an opal, For there is a golden fire In the sunlight, A strobe-like flash Reflected on each wave, A cool lushness in the trees Growing slowly toward full foliage, And there is a certain point Way out the channel, where the freighters steam, Where a thin band of milky white atmosphere Separates the pale blue of sky From the deep blue lake, Out where the red beacon on the lighthouse Seems to regulate the meeting of air and water And marks that misty point where earth ends And heaven begins.
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