The remains of autumn rusted on the far shore of Moreau Lake, quiet and still, cupped by the forest and sheltered by the heights behind me. Burnt foliage, long past peak, hangs on somehow, waiting for the next big wind. All is quiet, no voices, or wood smoke, no paddles hitting gunwales, no evening strollers; I can imagine them though, ghosts of the summer crowd on the far shore, invisible on the strand of beach lit in an unearthly white from 239,000 miles away. On a new full moon, a curious illumination occurs, with the sun just down still throwing a glow on a landscape lit as well by the rising moon. I am here by chance, watching what’s left of the color, what’s left of the season, what’s left of the day. Perhaps I’m a scavenger in a sense. Or maybe an opportunist. Nature is spiteful, showing off even when it thinks no one is looking. It suits me well, as I have a very short list of who I want to see her with. When it’s all been seen, I’ll take what’s left.