It’s one of those foggy mornings around the lake; when you look out of the window and all you see are the black boughs of trees silhouetted against a solid curtain of white. The world sort of ends twenty feet beyond my back porch. It’s rather eerie, really. I fully expect angels to emerge from the mist, their white wings wet with the moist morning; fluttering past my door on some important mission from the almighty.
Slowly my eyes become aware of lesser life; squirrels in the bare branches and the occasional bird -- both searching for sustenance in what is quickly becoming a hard world for the small and the weak – and the illusion is shattered. I hate when that happens; I like to hold onto my illusions for as long as possible. Ah, another season, another time. . .
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