Drifting veils of mist, frosted reeds rustling in the shallows and maple trees turning red along the shore, all of it reflected in the still water below. What more does one need on the trailing edge of day?
A solitary loon calls somewhere in the murky distance, and the three watchers turn to follow its voice. The great northern diver is invisible in the fog, but its haunting cry across the lake is sweet music in their ears. They will carry the song home with them in their pockets, remember it note for note and revisit it in their dreams all winter long.
A heron or three in the shallows would be grand, but that is all. Everything else is already here. Everything is liminal and magical and perfect, just as it is.