Stoney Lake

Mark Nenadov

I was just a scrawny boy
finding my joy in a boat
in the middle of the lake
anchored by a rocky island
tiny and colonized by a few
mist-shrouded pine trees.

I wore a Donald Duck t-shirt
and a yellow coat,
mellowly posing for pictures
sitting in boats and on decks
with stringers filled with fish,
boxed in by majestic
moss-covered rocks.

My life at that time
often seemed like whimsy
but big, fierce things
were being etched
into my bones
there at Stoney Lake.

Take the dark and chilly water,
infinitely deep it seemed,
cooling off the hot air
as it comes to the shore.

Life framed by rocky edges and sedges
littered by pine needles
from the trees lining the horizon,
separating the sunny sky
from the razor sharp eye
of the ancient lake.