Morning light draws from a stately oak shadows that reach toward the water’s edge.  Resting at my feet and encircling me like so many streams and tributaries feeding a river of shade, the silhouette arms grasp for that which they can never hold.  Yet briefly, and only in the morning, they brush tenderly against an ageless spirit who stands nearer the shore, a fellow Still Watcher eons older.  Their communion is sacred and I am honored to share in it.