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 say this is a good definition of paradise and they wouldn’t be wrong.

Whether all this natural wonder is by design or the result of chaotic chance is a question I ponder with the same intensity of a kid playing with a rubric cube.

None of us three say anything to upset the balance this evening, our planet a colorful top spinning on a sidewalk, a perpetual motion machine set in motion with one flip of God’s wrist.

The fish this evening must be enjoying the sunset as much as we are.

We haven’t even had a bite yet.

 

 

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