I’ve lived here six months. A new-old home, hopefully a long-term home, on the water. I woke one morning and saw fog lying on the water like a frosty breath, cushioning the boat slips on the creek, dampening the decks and docks, dripping from spreaders, running down stays, muting the birds on the water and slowing their progress in air. It was grey, and light gently crept into every space, finally diffusing throughout my view of the creek from my sunroom.
I woke another morning to view ice over all the creek. A thin layer, supporting hundreds of gulls grouped in penguin-esque clutches, huddled in disturbed, frigid semi-sleep.
I sit in the sunroom every morning with the water view filling out the edges of my soul. My core replenished daily from God’s Word, my view of the creek giving rise to a spontaneous, unstoppable expression of thanksgiving for the gift of life and prosperity. What great privilege I enjoy everyday.
On sunny mornings, the young sun finds my creek behind the trees and tints the white hulls gold, rose, peach, and yellow. Slate water gives way to sunlight in tones of pink and bronze, and finally reflected sky-blue. Now the moored, yellowed hulls and blue water-sky play against the greens of conifers, grey of leafless branches; red, yellow, white paint of charter boats and commercial watermen with white water boiling behind as they motor for the open bay.