There was a heavy fog on the lake this morning. It left the trees dripping and the grass wet. The leaves are slowly turning yellow, brown, and red. Some trees have given up and are already shedding so that bare branches stick out among the green and yellow. The lake itself is still as glass. It's the time after those who built their homes and raised their babies here have left; and before the migrants stop for coffee breaks on their way south. Change is in the air, along with the acrid scent of burning leaves and crisp fall.