Musings On The Summer Hill

In the lake, the sky meets the earth in perfect unison. The great white cotton forms of the clouds float along the still mirror surface, undisturbed, seemingly inches from the great gray slabs of rock that rise from the water.

It is the last day of summer, and we lie on the grassy hill, far from civilization and reality. We stare up into the endless blue span of sky, wondering where blue gives way to the eternal blackness of space. Far up, we decide.

There won’t be many more days like this. The mossy grass shall soon shed its green youth and transform to the brown of fall, the mountains will gain white camoflage, and the skies will turn gray. The lake will become cold and in the frost of a frigid night, turn to ice.

Fall will chase the maiden Summer away, and after tempting her to return for a short visit, will carry the old man Winter in on its shoulders. And we’ll sit in warm hearths and wait for the return of the maiden in her junior form, Spring.

But, in this moment, all is warm & perfect.

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