Where there is lake there is sky wide. And a white house on the hill, long and shore-facing. There are flags every few steps of the way, American flags waving. And a calmness stretched in the air out from the great lake and around this tiny island, a piece of solitude, rest and detachment by it’s own form.
There are no cars here, few stores and resting places. One long main road leads from hotel to hotel. It is a track, a walk or a bike ride needed to get around. Horses clamp down on the pavement slowly taking people to and from the hotels in groups with their baggage. It is calm and busy now, but you don’t see it until you get closer to the house.
On the porch suits of all sizes, a porch of people sitting about or standing, drinking or talking. Mingling is that word that is so accurate, a mixing of back and forth efforts that is a buzz or spread out between the people. Back and forth they come together and break apart again. The porch. The people. The politics that define the color and shape and suite for us all. Comes together and then apart again. Like the water and the waves and the shoreline. Together and apart.