have you ever been down to the lake at dawn,
when the sky lights veiled in misty white
and the lake reflects in silver drab,
when the wind unwinds from the tops of the pines
and whispers across the water,
when the whole world waits in hushed expectancy
--for time has yet to begin'
when the cry of the loon or the moose or the wolf
reverberates through the air,
when the rain slips down to ripple the waves
causing fish to splash and jump'
when the wind-swept pines stand tall and true
and dare anyone to speak?
in the day the lake belongs to man,
to swimming, to fishing, to boats,
but at dawn the lake is unto its own
and then its sacred ground