I love nothing better than to push off from the shore of a broad, shallow lake and float out into its center--
the entire body of water around me, quiet and still.
Sitting low to its surface in my kayak, the sky above it all seems even more huge, its open space a giant dome across which birds and dragonflies course—
while I drift as a lone, small speck below.
Onto the quiet water in a small arm of Salt Fork Lake, a reservoir encompassing nearly 3,000 acres of water within Ohio’s largest state park, I floated with 2 friends in 3 small crafts—
Julie's 2 canoes and my kayak.
Fanning out from this hidden shore, we spread across the water, the entire space in this small corner ours alone.
Each carving a distinct path,
each finding his own perfect treasures to explore,

we paddled beneath the wide, arcing flight of a young eagle.
And were held in orbit around a tiny spot of color as she rested on the darkened remains of a flooded tree stump, now a pint-sized island sprouting elfin versions of the earthbound greenery along the shore.
Bit by bit, we’d drift apart, pirouetting across the water to look into the face of a dancing fox hidden in weathered wood,

exchange a smile for a hand-delivered sandwich,

or paddle buoyantly--
because the freedom of water and waves feels like nothing else.


Then fall into line and speed to the opposite shore as one up ahead spotted a distant object standing motionless in the shallow water—

and knew all three would want to see.
As we watched the great white bird, a light rain fell across the glassy surface, and we sat in silence--
alone with the lake, but not.



My paddling companions:


