I’m sitting at the far end of the lake in Caylus where the only foot traffic is from the occasional elder whose finished tearing scraps from the loaf of bread they came to toss at the remaining ducks that haven’t been scared off by teenagers chucking rocks at them on the weekends.
The clouds are grey in the distance from a light rainstorm that passed by not 30 minutes ago before we laid in the dampened grass in the shade of a weeping willow that left the ground cool with moisture, but not enough to wet our clothes.
Castle ruins from the French Revolution are on the top of the highest hillside to our left, standing with such fragility that I questions its safety in proximity to a village accustomed to foot traffic.
It feels like autumn, my favorite season, to which I’ve received much criticism from summer and winter enthusiasts. The wind blows strong enough to rustle leaves skimming the surface of the still lake disturbed otherwise only by water spiders the size of infant lily pads vaulting over top. Croaking frogs and surreptitious birds orchestrate the soundtrack of our scene when what looks like old war planes aren’t making rounds overhead.
The sun is reflecting the ecosphere onto the lake in a way which makes me recognize nuances of the real world that I hadn’t noticed prior, causing me to look up for an affirmation that I wasn’t just seeing things. The dichotomy has me digesting my senses and wondering, are we living right side up, or upside down?