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At Birkenhead Lake
by Kent Bruyneel

At Birkenhead Lake, a hard hour from Pemberton, smoke comes off the mountains like a thousand's thousands trees are on fire.

But for the water baying at the dirt-sand, at seven am, there is no sound. There are no bears, no rabbits, no mice; just a postcard for "Beautiful British Columbia" that would show a triad of green, blue and rock-grey. That picture, as now, would be in awe, and unaware, of my capacity for weakness and wonder.

When my friends wake up all this silence will be broken by the running of dogs, the throwing of footballs and Frisbees and the voices of little children caught suddenly by the weight of both their solitude near water and the towels around their necks.

By then the dock, 100 yards or a swift front crawl away, will be less a beacon than it is now. To the young girls in first bikinis it will serve as a weight station, even a market place where they will comb each other's eyes for doubt & self-awareness.

If I am still awake, I am certain I will feel the most empathy for the biggest girl: a T-shirt over her first bikini, her hand pulling it down over her waist. Her steps, like a nervous soldier forced into battle, will be a call to please let us just get back in the water. All of us. Just stop standing out here or lying out here where the eye must go when at the beach: toward the water.

Kent Bruyneel is happy to be home. Off the tarmac.