The Lake
Just over that hill is a lake. It is perhaps the most
beautiful lake anyone has ever seen. A waterfall from the
mountain feeds it during summer, and water lilies float on
its surface during spring. The croaking of frogs on warm
July evenings is overpowering for the first time listener.
Willows droop along one edge, drinking their fill when the
days turn too hot. Deer and other wild animals come to do
the same, if nobody is around. Numerous wildflowers line
the banks, their rainbow hues reflected in the waveless
water, and the occasional summer rainstorm draws dozens of
wild birds of all types to shower and feed. Just
over that hill? you ask. Why not see it now. It is perhaps
a bit dark, and cold, but it sounds worth the trip. I try
to change your mind, telling you it is now November, and the
lake is not at its best. You insist, and threaten to go off
by yourself if I do not want to see it, so I reluctantly
accept, and lead you outside. Night fell almost an hour
ago, and a full, bright moon is directly overhead, providing
a little light. We crest the hill and look down at what
might be the most beautiful lake anyone has ever seen. The
autumn months have not been kind to the scene. The
waterfall is a mere trickle of molten snow into the cold,
dark water. Nothing but the hearty algae floats on the
surface now, and it too will be gone in a month's time.
Frogs have long since gone into hibernation, and the
lifeless bare branches of the willows seem to be raking
across the water, searching for something as yet unknown.
The deer have migrated south until spring, and the other
animals are busy preparing their winter nests. The flowers
and other such bushes are devoid of any life save for the
seeds preparing to germinate once the time comes.
Lightening and then the low rumble of thunder come from the
east, promising a storm soon. The lake looks as dead as
possible, and even I wonder if it will return to itself in
the spring. Another lightening flash lights the far side of
the lake, and the distinctive outline of a man is seen for a
second. He is standing on the bank, looking at the lake. A
third flash lights up the sky, dangerously close, and you
say that you see something red on or in his hands. I don't
really believe you, but I suggest we leave, and you are
quick to comply. We retreat over the hill and reenter my
house. Maybe I'll come back in a few months, you say. Good
idea, I reply.
Tyler Jones, September 6, 1990