Word on the Lake

I'm a house guest at a roomy cottage on the shore of Lake Naomi, which I can see from where I sit. Frozen swirls of gray tone, slightly menacing, make me content to remain indoors sipping tea and indulging in a string of lazy activities. Not activities exactly, because there's little action of any sort. Slogs and sloths come to mind, but they at least purposefully albeit very slowly, go about their business, which is survival. We should be so challenged. Shall I knit another row or two? Perhaps read a few more pages in Nothing To Be Frightened Of, a book best digested in small chunks because its theme is the certainty of extinction and how one might process the troubling notion? Have yet another cup of tea, or merely exist zen-like as the day fades? Think about dinner; think about it some more. Will there be dinner? Observe the dogs chasing dream rabbits while the wind chimes taunt, bet you can't name this tune. It's like a morgue in here, or a library. Fellow do-nothingers lounge around turning pages, processing a thought here and there, tapping into the oblivion groove. All of a sudden it's 4 pm and no one can account for where the day has gone, let alone explain the sentence they've just read. The sun slips from the sky, and a laptop glows white, a modern fire pit emitting no heat. A word sits frozen on the lake, then flaps off into the night, unread.