Still and quiet, the whispers drift towards me, borne on placid lake waters.
Sunlit glimmers, pearlized soft blue and pink waters are picture framed in the squared wood lookout of the old bird watcher’s hide. Breathless, I gaze enthralled, the intense beauty unreal.
Startled I turn. I’m not alone. Joined by an old man, his face weathered as the wood beams. We speak in quiet tones of heron and egret, of terns and the ever-present grebe. We don’t look at each other as we speak, our gazes entrapped by still water, the play of light, and the gliding, skimming shapes of birds.
We speak of grandchildren, of I pads and smart phones, of the few still able to partake of the immense beauty of such golden moments.