Spring always overwhelms me. Nature unveils its beauty after the snow melts and the haze evaporates; I bask in the cozy warmth of the sun.
Still in the winter haze,I admire my surroundings teeming with the innumerable inmates—
birds returning from migration, fish leaping up from slumber, and eternally hungry bears and foxes coming out of hibernation. Bees and butterflies fluttering amongst still unopened buds.
I love them all, but humans annoy me, bringing chaos to the delicate balance of the nature around.
Smoke bellowing from their barbecues, oil spills from their racing boats, and the endless sound nauseate me.
But he was different; standing at the edge of the water watching the sun go down, he appeared serene like a monk delving deep in meditation.
As if in a trance, he watched glorious shades of sunset dissolve in my azure waters that were now changing to myriad shades of crimson mingled with the dark shadows of oaks and maples surrounding me.
The next moment his deft hands were weaving magic on the canvas with the wand, transferring each detail from my vast expanse on the canvas.
I would never forget his pleasantly astonished expression while admiring my beauty.
It was love at first sight for both of us.
From then onwards I waited for him each morning, creating exact replicas of me.
But fall came early that year, or so it seemed to me.
The trees were already transforming into crimson fires.
I adore this vibrant fleeting phase, but I know soon it will be over with the falling leaves carpeting the ground or floating on my surface till soft snowflakes bury them, leaving behind skeletal trees with their outstretched arms, standing like dreary monsters in the grim scenario.
And not long afterwards it will snow to convert the entire landscape to deadly cold and white.
The geese and swans are filing past, ready for migration, and I shudder to think of the lonely winter, eradicating all colors and turning the world into a heartless white expanse, a vibrant sunset suddenly diving into dark night.
Even those who are staying are hastily collecting acorns or other seeds to fill their coffers and will soon enjoy their winter siesta.
For centuries I have been a witness to the changing scenario surrounding me.
I don’t miss them, for I need my rest and calm, but I was certainly going to miss him.
The days were getting shorter, and my surroundings were almost deserted. My man still remained there. The colors on his canvas were becoming softer and paler .Still, each painting was mesmerizing.
I saw him shiver in the bitter cold. His hands benumbed. He seemed to struggle with each stroke.
Then it happened. A blizzard of great intensity struck my shore. For hours nothing was visible. I desperately prayed for him.
The next day his paintings lay scattered on the shore, like the broken pieces of a mirror, each reflecting a glimpse of me and he was reflected in each of these.
