photo courtesy of Cass Witmitz
Remember to think about the picture and imagine what is going on before looking at what I wrote. No two people will imagine the same thing. That would be weird.
Humid! The rain last evening brought it and it's not going away any time soon.
Drip. Running down from my bare shoulder. Drip. A big splot strikes my hair and trickles down my forehead. I blink and search the liquid with my fingers. Just wet. Phew! I thought that one was bird dew for sure! Another drop cold on the back of my neck. The willows must have decided I need watering.
Not hot, yet. It's still early and the fog is chilly. Better enjoy it while we can. This time of year, it will be almost unbearable once the fog burns off.
But that's not for a while. The little fishing wharf across the way is empty. Good fishing when it rains, even now with just fog.
Idly poking at the side of the ice chest with a bare toe, I listen for their signals along the length of the sound. The splash of a fish breaking the surface competes with the faint swoosh of hidden traffic up the far bank. The fish wins. I call out, "Hey, guys? You should have stayed right here."
A bell rings out over the water. No matter what they say, fog makes it hard to work out directions--but that's Sutter's boat. Grinning, I pull the ragged rope. Hidden somewhere up in the old willow, our bell answers Sutter's.
By the way, Cass Witmitz offered her own interpretation,
"The lake held many secrets. Some its own. Some of others. And some from time itself."