The Early Bird Gets The Worm - by Conor

The steam rising from the expansive lake creates a blanket

Covering the view of the towering volcano.

The early morning sun is just starting to

Creep out from its bed and climb over the mountains.

The birds swoop silently in and out

Of the clouds like mosquitos on a cool fresh summer’s night.

Their reflections zip back and forth

On the top of the water.

Unbroken silence is denied by the small waves rhythmically lapping

Against the dock.

The sounds drifting over from the nearby town are

Barely audible.

Cars driving on the road seem timid,

Not fully awake yet.

In the middle of the lake, three centuries away,

A figure

Resembling the ferryman across the River Styx

Slowly paddles his way across the lake.

Shrouded in a cloak of mist and fog,

Solemnly gliding across the water.

­­­

Once he reaches the shore, he mutely passes the

Long row of women doubled over rocks in the shallows,

Painstakingly scrubbing dirt out of their clothes.

An ocean away, as if underwater, a horn

Signals the farewell of the early boat

Leaving,

Leaving this small town wedged in between the lofty volcano, the shimmering lake, and the endless mountains.

Leaving,

Leaving,

Leaving,

Leaving

Leaving

Gone..