This morning,

before the boats stirred,
before the gulls began their circling,

the big lake held the last of the night
like a deep and ancient thought.

The water was nearly still.

Only a small ripple moved outward
from somewhere unseen,
widening across the dark surface
until it disappeared into silence.

Then the eastern horizon
began to brighten.

Not suddenly.

A thin line of silver first,
then pale gold,
spreading across the water
as though light itself
had been poured from a careful hand.

The lake received it all.

Every wavelet carried a fragment of dawn.
Every shifting current
caught and released the sky.

A loon called from the distance,

its lonely song
neither sorrowful nor joyful,

simply true.

And standing on the shore,
with nothing to offer the morning
except my attention,

I watched the sun rise slowly
from the edge of the world.

How many times has this happened?

How many mornings
has the water opened itself to light
while we slept,
or hurried past,
or looked elsewhere?

Yet here it was again.

The night had come,
and the morning followed.

The lake clothed in gold.
The sky widening above it.
The darkness surrendering without complaint.

And I thought perhaps grace
is not always something extraordinary.

Perhaps it is this:

light finding the water,
the water welcoming the light,
and the heart,
for one quiet moment,

learning to do the same.