taken from my moleskin

Another morning silent. Alone yet in company. I un-zip the tent to spy on the sunrise fog that blankets not but inches above the lake, letting the red painted sky hold vibrant as a gift to those who choose to rise with the sun. Our tent sits perfectly between two trees, to which my eyes see nothing but the soft lake, three fishing boats and the towering snow covered mountain. The lake has yet to breathe, letting the snow reflect - creating a mirrored image. The fire now crackling is the only noise playing in my head. Within minutes the boats have multiplied and the fog has lifted to the tree line. The crack of the fire is replaced with a sporadic yell of excitement, boasting upon the mornings catch to share. The echo of the geese brings the blanket of vast wilderness back to comfort my distracted mind. Nothing can be heard now - nothing but the lick of the flames and the lap of the water as the boats motion creates a rippling disturbance along the lake. I can literally feel the warmth travel through my body and the caffiene run to each end of my limbs. The suns morning shadow is kiddes upon the glacial top, but with each passing minute its cold blanket creeps back - letting the sun fully welcome the day.