I wake early and go walking.
I am in the grass, on the path, crossing the field as the first rays of warmth break the horizon.
I am at the edge of the lake when those first beams shine crystals on her surface, catch and release in the easy and constant lapping.
I breathe in hard that smell of the lake, that unmistakable, probably algae smell that relaxes and inspires because its presence means I am near the water's edge.
I pause only long enough to know I am here and then I walk on.
I hear the trees moving against themselves and each other in the almost wind; the breeze that may grow or diminish with the length of the day.
But I will not be here.
By the time the movement of the air has made up its mind I will be safely back from where I came; part of me wishing I could have stayed to learn of its choice.