Robert Hicks

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Where The Glaciers Stopped And My Soul Resides

It's a late August day on Lamb Lake; sunny, hot and muggy.
But there is a sense of Summer slipping ever so subtly into Autumn.
Maybe, sadly, because the kids have been in school for two weeks already. Four weeks too soon.

It's well after noon and the lake is busy with skiers and people speeding by in their runabouts trying to hold on to that last little bit of the season. They run them fast like they are being chased by time, or are running after it.

Above are ospreys, herons, an occasional bald eagle.
Gliding, soaring, dipping. Sharing this place and time with us.
Afternoon fades to pre-dusk and the boaters begin to pack it in for the weekend. Homework to finish. Daylight's burning.

Now there are only a few slalom skiers left. The holdouts. The patient ones. The lake is like glass - they have it all to themselves. They glide by. Not a care. Not a worry. For a few late laps all is just right.

Dusk is here now; it's idle only.
The pontoons come out with their Christmas-colored nav lights on.
A calm falls on the water.
The sun is perched on the tree ridge just over the dam. Slowly it topples over the waterfall, streaking the sky with red and yellow flames and flickers.

All sounds cease. The quiet stillness of what can only be God drifts over the lakescape. Even the pontoons are gone now. Only twilight illumines the silhouettes of flitting bats against the darkening red sky and the breaking fish feeding on the black surface of the lake.

Starry, still, lonely, lovely Lamb where the glaciers stopped and my soul resides. 



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