There is a time, hidden in mist and fog, where coffee tastes like liquid magic, and peace is fragile, fleeting, filtered through the call of a far off loon. Promise hides behind the eastern horizon, hanging on to the orange ball which is the sleeping sun. The day does not burst onto the scene, instead peeking cautiously into the windows, winking on the water, waiting on the moon.

     There are those who must be first, who calmly sit and watch the day begin. I am one of those. My bride, she sleeps, the dawn being a time for dreams, and for stretching, only to dream anew. She is of the stars, the moon, the frogs which sing in that other world. I am made for the morning. The time before light, and after the night noises cease.

     My prayer for all of you who have a lake, a place where this world is not, and where rest can seep through you like sunhine, is that you too have a time. It may be noon, surrounded by grandkids, swimming, splashing, screaming, skiing; that may be your dawn at the lake. Mine comes truly at the break of day, but I do not begrudge you the time that is yours.

      The secret is in knowing there is a time. A cool drink on the pier with your friends, the fishing boat rocking with laughter and panfish. A time. A time when our problems are not as large as our blessings, when the sound of waves replaces the sound of tires whining, or phones ringing. Dawn at the lake. A time to rejoice at being alive. Dawn at the lake. A time to rejoice. I rejoice with the dawn, yes, but very quietly.

                                                                        G. Mitchell Pekoc 2007