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Today, the lake is still.
The lake is picturesque. Red earth and bright greens and yellows of flowers are painted into existence as if the artist skimmed their palet knife over canvas, letting the pigments catch on the weave of the cloth before curving it perfectly into the dimpled water. Clouds, a saturated blue but highlighted with pure white, hangs heavy over the forest. Fog creeps from between the trees like a gentle animal to lap at the shore. Everything is still. Even the lumber mill with the rusted roof and white sides is quiet today.