Our canoe ride this afternoon was quite magical.
Little Lake Tippecanoe is settling down now to wait for winter.
The reds have turned to rust and the yellows have turned to pale raw siennas. Oak leaves in burnt siennas float down around us like confetti and float like a million tiny boats all over the lake.
A late turtle hangs out on a log and a lone eagle circles above us.
The sky is cloudless and a heavy silence lays over the lake...
A lone fisherman fishes in the cove as we paddle silently by. The loons are long gone. So are most of the ducks (we find a small flock of 7 still beside one of the islands).
Piers are piled along the shore line.
Somewhere in the distance we hear a hammer...a neighbor is putting on new roof before winter comes howling down the lake.
Most of us are summer folk...headed now to warmer climes. But about half a dozen homeowners stay year round. They split their logs now in preparation for the snowy days and make sure the snow plows and snow mobiles and skis and skates are nearby.
We make our tour around and between the islands enjoying the last of the water lilies and listening for the call of the geese.
We lean lazy on our paddles now and then and see the world upside down in the reflections. The sun beats thinly on our heads now with long shadows coming early in the afternoon as the days grow shorter.
We have a week to bid our lake farewell before we head to Florida for the winter. Today was a jewel to slip into the memory box.
I spent this morning at the local Hawthorne Park Activity Fair promoting watercolor. I brought my journals and did a little discussion of travel journals! 
