Geneva, New York -- This has been a week of gentle breezes. The nights have been cool. Three deer -- two does and a fawn -- came across the lawn overlooking the lake and disappeared down the bank, too steep and too thickly wooded for humans to climb. The cat kills moles and leaves them on the concrete floor of the garage, on their backs with their paws poised in mid air, as if they were still scurrying along.
The grape vines with their jubilant leaves and reddish, curled tendrils are creeping across the steps of the long pinewood stairway to the lake, grey and listing slightly with age. The lake looks low, the seaweed is long and dense, a dark underwater forest. The Zebra Mussels are visible in the shallow water, millions of them, it boggles the mind, and now the larger Quagga Mussels too, even more, they say.
My mother grew up sailing on the lake, and comments on the wind, most days. “There's the south wind, coming gently. The south wind brings the warm air.” A train comes through every night, rumbling on the tracks along the edge of the lake. The sound carries across the water, so it’s hard to tell if it is near or far away.