A small fish jumps from the water beside the dock and skips five times, like a flat stone, disappearing into the rushes that circle the pond, a green edging blushed with the copper of small flowers.
Dawn, no wind, thin shreds of mist floating a few feet above the water. When the sun breaks the horizon behind the trees to the east it colors the clouds which colors the water around the dock, a peach atmosphere.
A heron cuts across the view framed by the screened panels of the porch, barely clearing the water, great wings floating in their long, slow rhythm.
Light fills the sky and the hill across the pond brightens, a single tree near the top already golden, a beacon.
Wood plank rafts float in a curve that follows the shore, a long lane for swimming. The water is warmer than the air for a change. When I dip my foot in it feels like a hot tub.
A fragment of rainbow hangs over the trees on the far shore, deepening as the morning comes on.
Swallows scan the surface of the pond for insects, twirling and swooping, touching down in quick spurts that send rings out into the barely rippled surface.
The clouds directly above begin to unthread and a rich blue shows through.
David and I sit at opposite ends of the table on the porch, writing. A bald eagle flies by, scanning the length of the pond.
Evenings, a pair of nesting loons with two chicks float past the end of the dock, making a circuit on the pond, then scream and warble as dusk tightens.