I never tire of gazing out over Skaha Lake,
Dog Lake to the land’s ancestral people.
Wind creates patterns across the water,
pristine like the painting of a master,
but with an ever-changing texture.
Rocky slopes frame the lake,
with sun-soaked vineyards peeking down
from the plateaus.
I walk the path along the western shore,
hidden from the noise of highway traffic.
Serene, with the occasional musical pips and squills
heard from the local quail.
Is there anything
prettier
than last light
striking
the eastern slope of the lake?
