Last night I grilled steaks on our patio. For a time I stood at the lip of our yard overlooking the water. The night was dark and chilly. Behind me our geraniums and hibiscus had transformed into a checkerboard of towels and sheets. Lights from other houses around the lake illuminated a somber canvas.
Gone now are the basso profondo come-hither songs of frogs. Fireflies in the night are a memory. Goose Lake seemed subdued by the early frost. Somewhere a Canadian uttered a lackluster effort that drew no response. An unseen Mallard made the same attempt with the same result. After that, silence.
Leaving the lake behind, I carried the filets inside. We ate them with salad and baked potato and drank good wine by candlelight in the breakfast room. Today is sunny and warming slowly. Winter will be here before much longer. Last night was a rehearsal at Goose Lake.