Eyes hesitantly peel open, staring at the bottom of a musty wooden bunk,
pondering if this 6 am wakeup will be worth it.
Hands run through unshowered hair,
rubbing the tired out of sleepy eyes.

Bare feet click-clack against cool white tile,
sluggishly sauntering to the saving grace.
Brain fuzzy, as the crappy Folgers fills
an old plastic travel mug with a faded green shell.

Lungs swell with crisp morning air,
as a soft yellow sun exposes itself.
Toes, wetter and cooler with each step,
welcome dewy grass weaving between.

Ears delight at the soft rippling,
the lake lapping on the shore, waking the world.
Fingertips grip the mug in one hand,
the side of a grimy fishing boat in the other.

Blonde hair whips in the Michigan air;
the hum of the motor disrupts the calm.
Eyes gaze to the fallen trees against the shoreline.
Luck is wished for, on the first father-daughter fishing trip of the year.

Tongues fill with the hot, watered-down liquid,
warming body and soul.
Throats coat with the bitter black brew;
caffeine fuels the morning.