Somewhere in this decaying world of peeling white and wicker, surrounded by maple and the flash of ferns, and around the lake crashing with ripples at the base of the vista, all is life. The season turns in from yellow past ordure to vermillion: this system has had it’s day, a line stretches out over the forest so that stretching is perpetual but kept at forty feet. I hear children play, in the woods close at hand. In the hall is a ready dictionary on a music stand.