Frozen Morning

After a sleepless winter night

warmed only by the fire of my pen,

I arrived at the lake at Burnet Woods

to witness the first frozen breath of morning.

The burgeoning sunlight began to play upon the trees, 

and, faintly, one could hear 

the ice on the branches crackling.

Then, as if the back of Silence had been broken,

a branch on a maple tree snapped  

and a load of snow poured like sugar onto the frozen lake.

Startled by the sound, a flock of geese that had been sleeping

flew off squawking, and I watched as they soared Westward,

away from the rising sun. 

Soon, I thought, except for the very faint sound of my breath,

Silence will once again take dominion over this place

to which I had come in search of nothing, not even silence,

but, perhaps, just myself.