It was a dark and stormy night, much darker than expected for the twilight hours of summer. Thunderclouds took away the evening pastels, only to replace them with frequent bolts of sudden light. The storm lingered for hours, with the lightning and thunder diminishing ever so slowly as it all moved to the east.

The morning dawned cool but bright. Fog rose from the wetlands, and a fine mist rose from the lake. Between the trees new clouds grew and rose slowly into the sky. I lingered on the dock for a while, to watch as the morning unfolded.

A great blue heron glided silently into the tiny marsh tucked into the corner at the end of the bay. It landed at the edge of the cattails, slowly looked around, then held perfectly still. If I glanced away I’d have trouble finding it again, so well it blended into the background of tall skinny things.

I lifted my pen to make a note, and the heron lifted from the edge of the lake. Its huge wings slowly pulled it into flight.

It rose among the pines, flying along the line that divided the forest from the lake. The dusky grey-blue neck reached forward, long and slender and crooked. Darker, bluer wings spread perhaps four feet across, waving slowly, with power enough to propel this huge bird gracefully higher and higher. It crossed the lake, then disappeared above the trees on the far side of the bay.

The sun nearly peeked out from the trees as it rose. The fog-turned-to-clouds thickened, and the sun disappeared. Tiny patches of blue sky blended with new white clouds in a sea of grey.

A pileated woodpecker tapped out its call on a hollow tree, the sound echoing through the forest. White-throated sparrows sang their sweet morning songs. A bullfrog mumbled, low and distant. But mornings belong to the birds.

Many sang their morning tribute to the coming day, I only wish I knew each song.

Loons, the white throated sparrows, a solitary robin, ravens in the distance, and the silence of the great blue heron were only a few that I recognized amoung the multitude of feathered forest neighbours. Another pileated woodpecker drummed from far away.

The breeze grew stronger as the morning grew older. The white mist rose to join the clouds took away what little blue there was to brighten the morning. The sky became a mottled grey above the forest of mysterious greens. The lake took on the colours of both, and rippled in the breeze.

The trees still dripped with the remains of last night’s storm. The dampness of the air chilled me. I touched the lake, its warmth surprised me. Perhaps I would go for a morning swim.

Viki Mather has been writing for Northern Life since the spring of 1984. During 2010, she takes us back to some of those older writings as she prepares to publish a book of ‘In the Bush’. This article was originally published in the summer of 2001.