Now the fog is on the lake and the lines are blurred again. A mist moves with the haunting grace of a ghost across the surface then disappears. The dock is closed to all activity, the swimming area marked by wooden posts mostly worn. The stony beach is maybe a meter wide and narrows as the rain returns and the water levels rise to consume it. A gnarled tree leans over the shore like it’s reaching out for help but it’s jagged and leafless, more like a claw than a hand.

Categories: prose, writing

Tags: blue moon, creative nonfiction, pacific northwest, William Pearse writer