Living on its edge, the pond pulls you through the seasons, framed by bare branches, deep green boughs, then a parade of color, a final exultation before the leaves disappear once again.
It’s chilly now, the air, brittle, touching your skin.
We are paddling a canoe near a broad stream, past a beaver’s huddle of sticks, lily pads scattered around. A frog plops from his resting place into the water as we pass, its round, hollow sound lingering in the stillness.
Brilliant red, yellow and orange hues ring my vision as we sink our paddles, interrupting the flowing current as we go. The water gurgles, sending ripples through the trees and grasses reflected on the pond.
It is autumn in the north woods and we are at peace.