The shadows lengthen and the water glistens orange yellow,
drops of gold shimmering in the water like the fishes darting,
and even as they settle down after the frenzy, comes the breeze,
gently trailing it's fingers on the surface and setting it off again.
The lilly stems respond to the murmurs from the ripples,
and bend their heads towards each other to share the secret,
the entire bed is soon abuzz with news that the wind blew in,
the gossip columnists hard at work adding their juicy bits.
However, the lake remains somber and meditative in repose,
the angst of separation fresh in her still waters as they pine,
as they lap against the stump that stood resolute in the middle,
unmoved by the activity and emotion all around in the water.
For the birds of summer have taken wing at the onset of winter,
seeking the warm climes of their nesting grounds up North,
cold heartedly leaving without turning once to see or say goodbye,
for they think their scintillating company was worth the lake's while.
A brief interlude every summer that breaks the lake's resolution,
and along with it, her tender heart that has just had its scars healed,
the lilies mumur their commiserations and cluck at the inevitable,
and the sun dips in the horizon in its unchanging watch over the lake.