A Thursday morning at Lightfoot Bay - August 23, 2013

Full Moon - Morning of August 23, 2013

Sunrise arrives later at Lightfoot Bay than it does at home. Having dispensed with my alarm clock once I left full time employment, my body instead awakens to the sounds and light of sunrise. The bedroom was cold, having left the window open overnight. I didn’t want to get out of my warm bed, but my body was not so gently telling me that I needed to get up.  As the cabin has a fine, new outhouse I needed to put on shoes and a jacket before venturing outside. Now dressed with flashlight in hand, I made the short trek to the building, did my business and walked back towards the house.

As I approached the kitchen door, I looked up to see the moon framed by the white pines. It was full and glowed bright through the dark sky. I quickly went inside, picked up my camera sitting on the table and returned to take several photos of moon. Seeing how I was now fully awake, dressed and camera in hand, I decided to walk around the house to see if there was anything else that captured my attention. The bay in front of the house was covered with a thick layer of fog, the result of the morning’s cold air intermixing with the much warmer waters. I could hear birds but could not see them. To the east, the sun was beginning to rise. I had seen this sunrise in my prior visits to Lightfoot but am always amazed by how different day break look here. Unlike the sunrises I had seen in Tennessee this past spring, vibrant with strong saturated hues of orange and magenta, Lightfoot Bay’s sunrises are subtle. At the horizon line, the trees form a dark undulating boundary between the foggy haze of the bay and the sky. As my eyes move upward, the sky’s soft pink, yellow and blue layers are distinctive but the edges of the layers swirl together like cotton candy.  In a little while the sun will climb over the trees and the pastel shades of morning will fade into white, not to be seen again until tomorrow.

Sunrise at Lightfoot Bay - August 23, 2013

I sit on the swing watching the fog rise over the bay, a cup of hot tea in hand to warm my chilly fingers. Except for the distant sound of fishing boats heading out into Lake Superior, the area is quiet. The red squirrels, the local law enforcement, are still asleep resting up for their day of nonstop scolding. In time my body and tea chill, so I go back into the house. It is in these moments that I realize that temperature is a relative concept. When I first arose this morning, I thought the house was cold. Now, the house felt warm and welcoming.

I sit here on the sofa, joined briefly by Mr. Wendell who has just finished his breakfast of baby carrots and retires for a morning nap. This is his second trip to Lightfoot Bay and it didn’t take long for him to acclimate to the house. Wendell’s compound is located on the octagon coffee table in the living room where he has the benefit of being in the center of the house’s activity free from the constant presence of his feline companions. Unlike him, the cats don’t like to travel and remain home with their kitty sitter.

Now that Wendell has disappeared into his house to sleep, the living room is mine alone to enjoy. The book that I started to read last night, calls me as does the package of cinnamon raisin bagels with cream cheese. It is time to put down my pen and answer their call.