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The Lower Lake

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The wind blows the flowers like a curtain swaying in an autumn draft; the trees’ whistle matches the song of the blue heron as he flaps his vast, mystic wings over the soft ripples of the lower lake. The clear sky is sprinkled faintly by specks of evaporated lake water. A large mouth bass breaks the calm flat of the lake as it jumps into the air, catching its meal, and falling back into the water; its wake is smooth and ripples through the entire surface of the water. There are no sounds other than the families of birds singing to each other. Whip-poor-will, Whip-poor-will; the high pitched notes of the song birds echo through out the acres of wilderness.
Yellow and white daisies surround the bird house placed on the aged totem pole as a wall of protection; a blanket of warm security surrounding the potential life housed in the square box. The green tops of the cedar release their scent to the winds of the summer day; with each breath wind blows a sweet scent that fills the air with a sense of serenity.
The whole world seemed to have the volume turned down: the sound of cars, planes, and voices were nonexistent to any ear. At the lower lake the world is quiet; the sounds are not made by the Earth’s inhabitance, rather made by the beauty that is the world itself.

Even the distant buzzing of wasp wings doesn’t seem to crowd the sounds of nature. A plump bumblebee floats on the warm breeze and falls on the bud of a brilliantly yellow sunflower; its small legs scurry around the core, searching for the sweetest nectar.
The scratching sounds of claws on the aged wood fence are faint to the ear as the dust toned lizard scurries across the faded beams of the fence as if chasing a fellow lizard. The long blades of grass bend against the wind; sounds of crawling are seldom heard by the ears of folk here. A dark turtle shell, decorated with spirals of yellow and orange, inches along in the field, stopping occasionally to recharge its stamina; perhaps it might eat a blade or two, then continues its long journey to the brush near the rusted gate.
Even the human influence seemed to be ruled over by the serenity of nature. Moss covered the boat house as did the algae. The cabins paint was fading and the stones of the foundation were weathered and faded. The metal gate that once was a brilliant bright red now was rusted and faded. Human kind had no authority here. Here nature was God.





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