The lake ripples silently beneath an ink colored sky.
The moon like an orange ball makes a pale yellow
path upon the clear water. The air is fresh with a
warm gentle breeze passing through the twinkling
autumn leaves. In the sky are tiny lights. Far away
yet you could reach out and touch them, so close
they seem. They dance to a fro, twinkling softly so
tenderly they shine.
The ripples slip upon the sand, like paper sliding over
glass. So silently they make a sound that gently
converses with the breeze. Such a symphony cannot be
heard, except upon the lakeshore. After all have
gone to bed, except the creatures of the night, the
lake, the moon, and stars so bright.
(If you feel so inclined, please pass this on.)