Mornings and evenings at Hermit’s Lakes are natural wonders.
The lake, this evening, is without ripples. Fish rise with a splash to the water’s surface for flies, an eagle lazily circles above us, watching the lake’s surface for the same fish we are trying to catch. Richard and Maria share a bench, all of us fishing hard as the sun drops and you hunker in your jacket to keep warm.
It will be dark soon.
Ninety nine out of a hundred people would agree this is a good definition of paradise.
The one dissenting vote we would throw out and figure the voter has a skewed perspective that makes them prone to anxiety and depression.
Whether all this natural wonder is by design or the result of chaotic chance is a question all of us can ponder with the same intensity of a kid playing with a rubric cube.
None of us three say anything to upset the existing balance, our planet a colorful top spinning on a sidewalk, a perpetual motion machine set in motion with one flip of God’s wrist.
We are fortunate to be silent witnesses of a spectacular sunset.
The fish must be enjoying the sunset as much as we are.
We haven’t even had a bite yet.