It looks so strange to be open at this time of the season. No stranger than it looked after last year’s snowstorm, which surrounded the blue water with a blanket of white, but odd enough in the Fall light. Tinged with sadness, it’s almost worse than if it were covered. Fall, like the Spring, moves too quickly, shuffling by before we really get to enjoy it. Only the oak trees hold onto their carriage a little longer, the brittle brown leaves hanging tenaciously on almost into winter. Theirs is a noble, if futile, effort.
