The lake is a long way from here. Her dance is a still life, framed in driftwood on our wall. Her rolling waves make no sound. Her scent of balsam and cedar has dissapated. We miss the sun’s red reflection on her shimmering silver and blue. We miss the call of her loons. Faith alone assures us the loons still nest, the flies still bite, the fish still jump clear of her surface when the mayflies hatch. We, like her hunted bear, huddle hidden in our home, waiting for a time when it’s safe again for us to roam.