The texture of water is no more constant than the spectrum of human emotions. In a wild river, it can be rough and raucous. While in a northern lake, its surface can reflect the summer sky as if the still water were a mirror. And then there are those streams where water’s texture can evoke the whimsical on a warm afternoon.
It seems that summer has haltingly arrived in Michigan, following a long, cool spring that lingered well past its welcome and reminded me of the Bard’s lament. This local lake is, fortunately, only a short drive for me.
O, how this spring of love resembleth
The uncertain glory of a May day;
Which now shows all the beauty of the sun,
And by and by a cloud takes all away.