When At Daybreak

bridgeMy dog, Zoey, and I like to walk to Daybreak Lake not far from my house. The route we take is always the same. We go on an asphalt path that cuts through rolling hills and is edged by wild grasses. The black top changes to a sidewalk that weaves in and out among candy-colored houses and beneath the shade of ash and maple trees.
At the lake, the water dampens the sound of traffic on the highway below, and we hear the twee-twee-twee of a Heron or sharp call of a Dark-Eyed Junco.
Today, some ducks had hatched and waded in a current breaking against the boulders. Toddlers in strollers leaned out to watch the ducklings bathe. Others tore pieces of bread and tossed them out for feed.
We go across a wooden bridge that arcs and expands the width of the lake, and then take a returning route past beaches with sun-bleached docks. Before we go, my dog and I must stand between towering willows that sway to the rhythm of the waves.
Here, I taste the wind on my lips and soak the sun into my skin. The sight surrounding me catches my breath and holds in my heart. I am amazed at the world and that once again my route is the same; whenever I go to the Lake, I am home. When I leave, I am reborn.

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