algonquin morning

I wake I know not how. There is no time here, only light.
It is light enough to rise.
The morning chill sharpens me as I dress, and the thrill of beholding the morning hastens my movements.
A fog hangs low over the lake obscuring the still, glassy surface. On the far shore a rugged cliff is barely visible through the shifting haze.
I put a pot of water on to boil and head to the shore to wash my face.
The ancient forest is so still at this time it is imposing. Old and dark, beautiful and endless. The pines and hemlock and birch beckon me to enter and explore, to learn their secrets and forget my past.
The ticking and creaking of the water reaching a boil brings me back to the campsite. I sit on a log and let the rich smell of coffee swirl around me and I savour the way the heavy aroma mixes with the long flavours and warms me.
The sun is higher in the sky now, and as the air warms the fog lifts from the lake.
I know it will not be long before I cut the glass with my paddle and use my skill to move quickly and silently over these pristine waters and through these noble woods.
I was not born here but this is my home, my kingdom, and I am its master, its steward, its lover.