The lake is a wild and elemental place at sunset, mist floating on the water and draping the shoreline, here and there the call of a loon, the susurrus of a heron striding the reedy shallows, the languid ripple of pike or perch rising to the surface and then falling back into the depths in slow motion.
Old boats, bridges and wooden jetties, rafts, pylons and buoys — all are human creations, and in ordinary terms, they are anything except mysterious. At the end of day, they are transformed by light, clouds and water, and they take on the fey trappings worn by all things resident on foggy inland seas at sunset. Is it magical? For sure, and if the stuff could be bottled, it would retail for a small fortune. It cannot, however, be captured or sold.
When the scribe arrives home, she is still dazzled by her sojourn on the shore, and she is, herself, a bit fey. Sundown dances behind her eyelids, and the light is votive in its shimmering intensity. She still hears waves lapping the shore, and the sound is as peaceful as a bell calling her to church or temple or meditation.
How long has she been coming here at this hour of the day. It's an incandescent experience, each and every time. Everything she needs, almost everything in the world that matters, is right here on the shore, and she returns whenever she can. In the words of Ursula K. Le Guin, she is always coming home.
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We feed our souls by touching the elements, observing their interactions, and adding our own.
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