I sat down by the lake, cross-legged on the old wooden dock. There wasn’t a sound but the water lapping against the rocks and a train bell clanging in the distance. An old skeleton of a pier crawled out into the lake on its hands and knobby knees, pikes reaching up to the sky, and the other side of the lake looked like another world with its Christmas light houses and its mountains made of trees. Two ducks floated quietly past as fireflies danced in the night like glowing matches. An otter swam past me, slicing the water like a birthday cake, and a bunny scampered into the bushes, his cotton tail held high like a mercy flag. Tonight, I was their only guest. The sky above was bruised with violet and the belly of the lake was swollen with stars.
In moments like these, the world is often described as being very still, but it is not still at all. Rather, it is flowing in the right direction.