The Stream's Cloak
A retreat from summer's close morning air, the new day brings a vivid announcement by nature that autumn is peeking its head just above this forenoon horizon. I observe the meandering streams that wind their way through these bayside waterways. Their countenance shrouded in a silken white cloak, like ghosts hovering precipitously over the warm, placid waters. The air is calm, the trees and leaves, or what remains of them, are still as a corpse, allowing this haunting to linger above. This is the time of year where these moments permeate our thoughts of summer's obstinate refusal to release its choking grip without a struggle. In time, the waters will cool and the cloak will lift, if only just temporarily. For now, though, what do the wading ducks and geese, migrating birds and fish narrowly below the surface make of this spectral phenomenon? Are they scared? Nonplussed? Or just happily oblivious? I believe they are some how comforted in the knowledge that another season of lif