i sit at the lake with my books. books to write in. books to read. my camera. and my edgar. the little spot i made a decade ago. a picnic table from lichened boards, jutting slightly into the water. chairs. a shady spot for edgar's bed. and watching me through the trees is a little white house. a house that stands alone and empty all the year. there is a different sort of sadness that echoes from a summer house that is alone in summer. she peeks through the trees at me.....this house. she hasn't felt the creak of opening doors or the freshness of the lake air through open windows in too long. and she's just a few feet from me. lonely through a tangle of branches and woodsy undergrowth. i think of her, this house alone in a little forest on a lake. i take her home with me and daydream. i think she considers me a friend.