Finally coming out of winter
and after the long rains,
we decide to canoe for the first time
with the children. The air is cold,
and we shiver, but we paddle to the beach
on the far side of Cheney lake.
Sydney helps gather damp leaves
for a fire. The only wood —
the drift wood — is sponged,
but it burns. We make sandwiches
and lie on the sand. I tell Bo, for the third time,
to stay away from the puddles,
but he walks through a deep one,
and his shoe is soaked. He sulks
and sticks his foot near the fire.
The sun is setting on our way
back across the lake, which is now
vibrant pink around us.
It is quiet and still out here
on the pink water. The kids are calm
and watching in the boat.
The only sound is the paddle,
except from across the lake
comes a low heron flying,
looking down and circling above us.
He flaps back again out of sight
to where he came from.
Then come two blue herons,
the first bird and his mate.
When we all turn to look
at the two herons returning,
the boat rocks and I gasp feeling us turn over.
But I am wrong, and we are still here
gliding safely across the bright water.
The two birds fly low to the lake and disappear.
We sit silently paddling, all of us together,
until we reach the far shore.
