Tangerine: A Book of Hours

While fishing (but not really casting line into lake) I sat with others on the shoreline. Evening eased down into the sky, pressing light toward the horizon. As the night fell slowly, the lake grew still: a mirror-sheet. Bats flicker-flapped across tree-tops. Time pressed down further.

And the water started filling up with sky.

Pinks shifted to purples, cobalt blues and orange. Yellows and even greens. If you shine a flashlight upon a wall, it makes a glowing circle. Slide the beam lower on the wall and, eventually, it bends and starts to wash across the floor.

That's the way the sky came down with twilight, into the lake. At one pristine point they were evenly matched. Mirrored. Selectively see that and you can talk your imagination into not knowing where sky ends and water begins. Think that, and you are floating -- timeless.

For a handfull of moments.

Right now, I'm sipping a cup of tea, and typing this. The night outside is perfectly crystal-black. I took a picture of me, doing this, with my cell phone.

But that was a while ago. When I was thinking of the lake. The mirror-moment is different now.

Hello, October...