The Lake loves reflection, so I gave it some new ones. I cut long ribbons from rivergrass and tied them to driftwood, each one for a friend. When I dropped them into the water, the current carried them in slow, looping circles.

Some ribbons flashed silver under moonlight; others looked green as pine. Each one shimmered its own story. The ripples carried the colors across the Lake until they touched every corner. A kind of quiet greeting.

When the wind picked up, the ribbons danced and crossed paths. They looked like they were waving to each other. Maybe they were.

I whispered, “For all who can’t be here.” The Lake whispered back with a ripple that felt like a hug.

I swam beneath a carpet of drifting gold. Leaves spun slow, soft, deliberate—each surrendering to the water with grace. I tried to catch one but missed on purpose. Gratitude feels better when it moves freely.

The Lake keeps everything, but gently. It tucks memories under ripples until they sparkle instead of sink. I thanked the surface for its honesty—how it shows the sky’s face and still keeps its own.

When evening cooled the shore, I surfaced and watched mist rise in thin curls. They looked like sighs too shy to be heard. I whispered mine anyway: a thank‑you to the season for teaching patience through change.

The leaves will settle by morning. The Lake will keep them. I will keep the lesson.

The Lake practiced being still tonight. I floated just under the surface, listening to the tiny sounds water makes when it thinks. The mist arrived early and laid a soft veil over everything.

I waited for the moon. She can be shy. When she peeked out, her light drew silver rings around my tail. I swam through them like hoops and laughed bubbles that tickled my nose.

There was no crowd—just reeds, stars, and the patient shore. That felt right. Some nights are for quiet promises you keep to yourself.

Before I dove, I waved my tail at the moon’s reflection. It waved back, wobbly and kind. Ceremony complete.

The Lake likes to keep its secrets under glass. When I swim through, the water folds around me like a friendly blanket, cool and quiet. Every ripple carries a memory—some mine, some borrowed from the moon. I don’t rush them; stories need time to float up.

This morning I saw my reflection stretch into a thousand little waves. Each one smiled a bit different. That’s how the lake reminds me we can change and still be ourselves. I dipped my tail and watched the rings widen until they met the reeds.

A frog sang somewhere close by, off-key but proud. I hummed along. The sound tickled through the surface and made the fish curious. They don’t talk much, but they always listen.

When the sun slid higher, the ripples calmed. The lake smoothed itself like brushed silk. I took one last look before diving down again. Still waters remember everything—they just keep it gentle.