The still glassy waters of a November Moon Lake.
I inhaled. The nip in the air was sharp, not quite a bite but you could definitely feel it in your throat. I exhaled, I looked to see if the spontaneous cloud contained any traces of the whiskey that was on my breath. It didn’t. I had my tripod and camera tied, slung over one shoulder, and draped across my back. The short dying autumn grasses, probably tipped with a cloak of frost, crunched slightly under my feet as I made my way to the lake. I had a flashlight but wasn’t using it. The silvery white moon hung low and the chilly November air was silent. I took a small pull from my flask. The brilliant colors of red and gold that had brought me here in autumn were already slumbering for the season, and the v shaped formations that pointed like arrows to the south had long since left the sky. “Time moves fast these days” I thought. As if time was really changing or as if time really had any concerns for petty thoughts like mine. I looked at the stars overhead, they made me think more about “time.” Wished I could slow it down, see them move, spin their tails in circular patterns across the deep black blanket of the night sky. “Pretty heavy stuff” I thought and again took a plug of spirits. The silent yawning expanse of the night is no place for a philosopher and his “young but not quite as young as it once was” mind. The sky dwarfed me, the still waters of the lake mirrored me, and the silent expanse of the woods echoed me. It was beautiful and intimidating. The bold and unabashed beauty of nature, stern and unashamed, can make you feel insecure. All your triumphs and all your accomplishments become small and petty, and you think to yourself. “Boy, I’m glad I brought the whiskey.”