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Close to six decades have passed since a young family re-settled on the shores of a lake the Iroquoian named Skanadario.

Spring has come to Algonquin in reluctant strokes of fragile warmth. Cool waters ripple as icy coverings are released, and return slowly to fluid motion. Closing hours of daylight spawn Winter’s last flurry, and a chill returns to the now placid waters. Distant shores lose definition, and mystery returns in the Mew Lake mist.

I hear the world differently than you. Visual cues present themselves, and guide me in ways unknown to most. I hear rustling leaves through oscillating shimmer, as they dance to an East wind’s command. The splash of a Northern Pike delights me, as ripples radiate then fade to still waters. A loon’s crimson eyes rise and fall in royal splendour, as its lonely call brushes my soul. Night falls as ashen shadows and azure skies cloak reflective silence. All who bear witness unite in my world. I am not alone in the presence of the night birch.