I watch the ripples he left behind fade back into unbroken surface. I am reclining in the curve of a cedar branch overhanging the water, cooling off after a hike. The bark is still warm enough from the afternoon sun to envelope me in the sweet perfume of juniper in the still air. Here at the base of the mountain painted trillium dots the forest floor, but up on the summit we found them still wrapped up in their buds, contentedly unaware of the strength of the season below them. The peak, now reflected in the water below me, prefers to wait for true summer to display her colors. My gaze wanders between these two worlds, both caught in the spell that is the seasons, both on the brink of some undeniable change.
The loon surfaces.
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