The year opens
the way the lake does
when the wind hasn’t yet
made up its mind.
A pelican lifts off,
slow as someone checking
whether the day is worth
committing to.
There’s the faint drift
of caramelised onions
from the caravan park—
not sweet, just a reminder
that people are already gathering
for something small and ordinary.
I take the track
down past the brittle grass,
not to declare a beginning,
only to stand where the water
waits without fuss.
If this counts as a start,
it’s the kind that asks nothing—
just a step,
and the willingness
to stay with it.