I stood in a solitary place for what seemed a lifetime,

but only for a few moments.

I witnessed a most spectacular event,

the coming of the dawn.

At that exact moment,

the sun broke the horizon and lifted to the heavens,

appearing from behind a shroud of trees.

I attempted to time the event,

but it seemed pointless in the sight of such beauty.

A fireball of light with such strength,

I reluctantly had to shield my eyes.

With one continuous push this miracle of our existence,

once again gave us a new day.

I was humbled by the sight but energized,

thankful I lived this exact moment in time.

If one does not take the time to recognize the gift of a new day,

then they indeed miss the true meaning of being alive.

Rain clouds rolled in before the dawn,

a southwestern front covered the morning like a blanket.

The woodland creatures were singing in perfect harmony,

tree frogs carried the baritone section and crickets harmonizing along.

Cardinals provided the melodic high notes along with others,

too numerous to mention, a perfect dawn chorus.

The wood line presents a kaleidoscope of fall hues,

a pallet of color painting a portrait of fall.

Pure moments of splendor and beauty,

are a small price to rise early.

The silent running tide moved slowly up the branch,

a stoic heron and a wandering egret wait patiently for their evening tidal meal.

The soft razing foam on the edges of waves outline the shoreline,

creeping and swallowing the land which it covered just hours before.

 A steady accordion of rippling waves crest,

giving direction ahead of the gentle wind.

This scene through a screen porch at dusk,

provides a pixelated view of a waning day,

full of memory and gratitude.

The reeds and the cattails pay homage to the scene,

bowing softly in the wind.

The movement of the tide is etched in ancient rhythm,

leaving and returning,

giving balance and harmony as true as time itself.

Let your life flow in parallel with the running tide,

pay homage to the strength and consistent pattern of our tidal existence.

We too move back and forth with consistent determination,

bringing nourishment and rebirth to our lives each day.

Wonder in the power and live the gift of God’s own hand,

giving eternal thanks for the adventure we are given.

Hours ahead of sunrise,

the woods are dark and have swallowed the night hours,

holding them captive until dawn provides the edge of light.

High above, strong northwest winds glide across the bright lunar shadow,

brilliance from above, chill from below.

Smoke from fallen ash and oaks brings fall fragrances to the senses,

plumes rise in homage of polar temperatures,

descending upon the wintery landscape.

An evening snow has blanketed white crystalline fields,

leaving snow-tipped cedars with confectionary perfection.

Sitting as a willing participant to nature’s gift,

I tune my senses to know there is a presence among us,  

blessing us with this view.

A serene presence so strong,

transforming the wind and the seasons,

providing magical inspiration.

As the remnants of the evening fog,

lift like a curtain on a broadway stage,

anticipation builds in the show which is to unfold. 

The production of a new day has debuted,

with the sunrise on the branch,

bringing to life the shimmering aqua crystals,

which dance across the surface,

like millions of brilliant strokes of light.

As I stand and observe at the edge of the run,

the reflections of my soul I see in the tide.

We are the writer, the producer and director,

with a supporting cast ready to perform,

a play not yet told.

Time is etched in the deep furrows of the worn, wooden decks.

The spirt of the oystermen forever displayed in the stains of the copper plates,

which cover the cypress hulls.

The essence of the Chesapeake Bay will always be symbolized,

by the one true work boat, the Skipjack.

Deep waters of the bay have given this vessel her character, her independence,

but, have exacted a heavy toll from the heritage,

she once helped to shape.

A fading heritage, which progress and time,

have been much less kind.

Recall the seasons when this heavy-hulled workboat,

tilled the bay’s floor in search of shellfish.

Using only mainsail and tiller to provide direction,

the waterman repeats an ageless ritual,

once the life blood of the bay,

now a hallowed memory.

The unfurling of canvas sails and stringing of hemp nets,

characterized the daily duties of the oystermen.

Daybreak is greeted by raised mainsails and haul lines,

straining against the winch drum,

anticipating a bountiful result.

The oysters are hauled aboard and culled,

by the merchants of the Chesapeake.

The oystermen have a keen eye and deep respect for the bounty,

sorting the catch, more an art that drudgery.

Rejected stones are returned to the deep,

the remaining provide the ultimate feast for the palate.

Final respect can be paid to these mighty, wooden symbols,

in quiet harbors and museums, worthy of their presence.

Winches lay silent, the decks are empty,

wooden hulls lie nestled in a quiet harbor.

Visitors stand next to the gunnels of these majestic giants,

dreaming of a time when men, who had a deep love for wood and the bay,

Combined spirits to sail the Chesapeake.

Stand still and inhale the crispness of the dawn,

You will be reborn.

Going beyond the comfort of your evening slumber,

Provides your soul with a new horizon,

For your heart, a direction not taken.

Whether it is viewing the ripples on a placid lake on a summer morning,

Or breathing in the aroma of pines in the woods,

The gift of today is a reward for being grateful and believing in miracles.

Tomorrow’s are expected, but not promised.

When it comes make sure you take a moment,

To rise and meet your future,

 Inhale your good fortune.

As wood meets water,

The wind powers the keel,

Cutting deep the the world below,

Holding tight to the wheel.

A seasoned crew bracing a cold November morn,

Repeat the ancient days,

Weathered and worn.

Sunrise is expected for warming relief,

Sails billow strong,

Safe from the reef.

A watermen’s life,

Stalwart and strong,

My soul, my being,

Is where I belong.

Rising before dawn, requires stamina and brawn. Gear-laden vehicles filled to the rims, a stop for fresh coffee, covered to the brim. A short trek to the Chincoteague dunes, always a site, hoping the sea will provide a tug and a bite. Portage of equipment across morning sands is quite a feat, strength is preferred but good for the weak. The pounding of the morning surf, bringing the tide to rise, each wave that laps the shore leaves a momentary surprise. Lines are prepared caste into the depths, stationary sentinels of mono-filament resting between reps. Sunrise and sea spray combine, to repeat a fishing tale older than time. A morning meal is prepared above the sand with gas and grill, the aroma is familiar, each sense it does reach, A meal fit for kings… Brats on the Beach!

The southeastern sky is the setting on this late winter morning,

as Venus holds court before the dawn,

a brilliant sentinel as night releases its hold on the day.

As I sit in the front row awaiting the sunrise,

I watch with amazement as once again we are granted the gift of life.

One does not have to rise early to understand the power of a new day,

but to start the day viewing a sunrise is truly a worthwhile effort.  

I strive to understand the meaning of life and the privilege of a new day,

I am thankful for the experiences that led me to this point.