| Reflections on Chilliwack Lake (RC) Reflections on Chilliwack Lake
We paddled around the lake,
pausing at the pretty parts,
pondering the silence, and
enjoying time and spaces.
The mountain peaks to the east
were the colour of an
indian-red crayon,
that most politically incorrect
crayon, aside from "flesh,"
that utterly confused me
as a child.
Etched into the mountain by
endless tears,
were the worry lines of
a thousand generations.
The reflection of the sun
imprinted itself on my eyes in
purple and teal.
A bird cried out like a
child holding an improbable
science-fiction ray gun
- beeioou beeioou -
until the high-pitched
machine gun reply
of its mother urged its
silence.
Each stroke caused mini-whirlpools
of sight and sound, ever-so-slightly
disturbing the perfectly placid
waters that welcomed the
intrusion, so that some
one, thing, or otherwise
might enjoy its pleasures. |