Sitting out on the dock, So late even the bugs are mostly asleep, Puffing on the last cigarette I brought down with me, Taking in the brilliance of lake stars, And the shimmering mirage-like reflections of the resort across the cove.
Two owls conversing somewhere up the lake, Their soft calls echoing endlessly across the flooded valley's waters, Forever a part of the lakes empty nocternal orchestra.
Soft laps of water as the denizens of the deep come out to eat, As the fall breezes begin in earnest, Bringing a slight chill like an indicator of the winter to come.
The crickets chirping a tune to the spiders as they weave their webs, As a blinking green light of a lone boat chugs gently north, A witness to this early-morning delight like me.
Stars so much more visible, But not quite like what they are in the wilds of the north, Twinkling becons of long dead planets and age old messages, Ones that tell us how small we really are.