Tonight I sit on the edge of the dock, the firm planks of wood beneath me feel cool and smooth on my toes. It is not hard, but somehow comfortable in the serene night, only the sound of the nearly imperceptible waves carefully lapping up against the side of our Bayliner can be heard. It has traded its loud roar of gasoline to adrenaline in favor of a silent vigil over the smaller creatures of the lake. Tadpoles, minnows, the spiders scurrying underneath the dock below me, mere inches from the glistening surface that could spell doom for the eight-legged creatures built for land. My eyes, however, are not turned to the dark underbelly so described, but rather my eyelids are raised for the purpose of seeing what is before me.

Across the lake the soft twinkle of the campground, while adding a somber touch of civilization to the masterpiece, is something that viewed from afar begins the painting. These fireflies, immobile as the four floating in the cosmos above, remind me of how dark can make even the ugliest thing appear beautiful beyond what in light could even be imagined. A few other fireflies dot the landscape of the far shore, but in the middle of this firefly Eden and the Adam and Eve castaways stands the humped silhouette of the mountain, perfect in the dark, its outline pure in two dimensions as trees find no spotlight now. Even the moon, lopsided as a knowing grin, does not cast its glow upon this monolith. He, instead, mingles with the thin clouds; their girth spent on last night’s cleansing showers. The white cotton, stretched thin, appears to part to allow him to shine through, reflecting in perfection upon the glass lake. To the left of the knowing moon, the clouds grow thicker, but only as ripples of white, straight lines hewn across a sheet of the purest wool, mimicking the subtle waves in which it is reflected back at itself.

All this I take in, my knees in my arms and my chin perched upon my forearms. The nearby road is silent, the 18-wheeled beasts of burden that typically rumble loudly up the hill have for now also taken to slumber. No boats careen across the lake, whooping cargo in tow. The motorcycle next door will not wake until early morning when it rumbles off to work. Not even the sound of a paddle gently caressing the still waters into motion is heard. All is silent save the nighttime whispers of nature. And all I can think of besides the austere beauty of it all, is that I lacked someone to share it with. My father, who slowly walks down the ramp behind me, inquiring, does not quite fill the void. That sort of moment, that time when you sit awestruck at the grandeur of nature, as I have many times before, feels like it should be shared with someone you love. So I rise and ascend the ramp to the old wood of the camp and my warm bed, where I sleep away memories.