Morning on the Lake

Grandfather has told me that I must have the night eyes of an owl, a nose as keen as a bear’s and ears as sharp as a wolf’s. I do. I am ready.

I can barely see his dark shadow entering the woods. Quickly, I follow. I feel a strange chill beneath my jacket, but it is not cold. The air in the forest is damp and smells of cedar roots, spruce needles and fishing worms. The thick arms of the huge trees block out the moonlight. I try to use my owl eyes, but they are not working very well. I feel the forest floor with my moccasins and lift my feet high with each step so I will not stumble over fallen branches.

I cannot hold my silence and excitement any more. “Mishomis,” I whisper, “when will we see the night animals? Where are they?”

He does not stop to answer, and his shadow in front of me moves quickly. I imagine that Grandfather is a bear or a moose traveling these woods in the dark. Yet he moves too swiftly and silently for either of these large animals. I quicken my pace and follow close behind him.

Suddenly, a bone-chilling howl pierces the silence. I gasp and whirl around. I am able to see now in the blackness. There are two yellow eyes, staring, looking right at me. I hear the panting of this night animal.