I'd better write about something I saw before it fades from memory, becomes unimportant, and disappears completely unto the cold months of hibernation ahead.

It is that the lake and sky meet but do not overlap. They lie touching, in a straight line, and are two enormous entities, neither with the power to overtake the other. A storm can have the duo dancing, with each still maintaining its integrity, however.

I go to the lake when things aren't what I'd like them to be at home--kids and/or husband feel like they're bulldozing me. I watch the people, the birds, the butterflies on the scene. I journal on paper, I swing on the bench swing, I forget, I remember I should be getting back home--and happily do.