We pull at the oars, trying to catch up with our dreams, dreams as long and deep as the lake itself.
Dreams that ride on the backs of eagles
and travel at the speed of the setting sun.
With the day disappearing, winter's chill creeps closer, and we're off the lake by six. I look once more for the eagle, find it soaring above the sun, its back golden from the light. Sweet, sweet dreams, I think. We'll catch you yet.