Presqu'ile

Presqu’ileV V By

Robert G. Granger Copyright 2009 Robert G.Granger Bleuentropy@gmail.com

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The sun rose out of the eastern lake waters unfurling its rays like the sails of a fleet of corsairs questing for the gold. The waters peak and spark in the light and wave the day onward to stoke the July sun, a celestial engine pulling a warm wake to splash the morning onto the face of the land.

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The trees hug their cloak of early morning fog as small clearings yawn breeze and lift the density off as the birds take to wing.

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The earth-dwellers wake with a current along their spines to forage for familiars and food.

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Canvas yearned and shuffled in the buffeted breeze compromised to the ground tethered to serve shelter and never to wind-jam again.

And there you stood, brilliant in your Macintosh surveying your kingdom in retreat.

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The community of hearty souls and kindred hearts battened down amongst the trees. Tasting freedom in every breath and living the way of your adventuring past. Gathering up and near the fire brings faces and plots and plans for the day.

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The paddle poised to trailblaze or lead-follow the beaten path to the water and its purposed task. In your hands it is more than honed draw of the water spirits. It respects place and position to captain your vessel through the brush and bush only to bow from the porters shoulders as it is being drafted from shore to surf.

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Reeds weave and wave rooted between water and rock, soil and swell holding break the elementals like the constants of time, timeless in the ways of nature. Silent as the whisper through the pine and oaken glades. Secret as the turn of the leaf or the stubborn grip of a rocky socket.

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Here privateers and pirates moored their beams and smuggled the masted rigging among the sovereign groves to revive in the lea of the land and dream of open seas.

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Your map claims ‘Here Be Dragons’ as your craft slips cautiously through the bay. And out past twenty oarsmen finding passage to the open sea.

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The wind and the wave grip your sturdy launch, raked with spray and wrenched nearer to the rocks that boastfully tally their score of ships, you course towards the point. A trip around the Horn was never as rough as you venture into the wind.

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The fold in the map and the trough and the peak draw the ‘X’ and the object into sight.

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The welcoming hand of the sun warmed sand and smiles that greet you there.

The dunes and the waders hold boldly to the stake as you defer to the prior places they may claim.

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The birds that wade and soar call you to beach to build your castle-keep in the sight of the wistful wind.

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The sun declines in a respectful arc promising to cross your path again.

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The night of the sky drifts with currents of stars and direction left to explore.

RGG Copyright 2009 Robert G.Granger Bleuentropy@gmail.com

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