Sitting on the frost-covered dock

since first light this morning,

I've been blessed by nature

in a double way:

From massive,

snarled oaks on a hill

across the river,

the October leaves,

warm-colored by weeks

of frost and cold,

are reflected

on the dark blue water surface,

and I see them twice.

In the misted morning twilight,

before I could see

the sun above the land,

the colors of my twice-seen

leaves and sky

were muted,

even a little dull.

But now the sun has crested the hill

and the trees behind me,

and my leaves

and water and sky

have come vibrantly to life.

Aware only of the still crispness

of the air and

my frosted breath,

I feel detached in

time and place,

and uncertain

which of the

double images is real.

A wisp of air ripples

the surface

of my water and

gives my answer,

and I am

carried with it.

The small wavelets disturb nature's

exact reproduction

and makes it into a

moving,

changing,

iridescent,

blended color image

that will never again

be just the same.

And neither will I!