Islands

There are two small islands that sit in front of the family cottage. Close enough to swim to, if you are brave and in relatively good shape. I have painted these islands many times. They capture my imagination. On the larger, there used to be tiny cottage belonging to the wife of the farmstead beside us. A mysterious place whose windows we peeked into as though looking into the past. These islands are so small you could maybe fit one tennis court in the middle if you didn't mind the uneven ground. You could land a helicopter on them if the trees were gone. They are much closer to our side of the lake; from the other side they blend in with our shoreline; but from our side they stand out and give focus to the view of the lake and the loons as they swim by. The islands do not have names, just "the islands" or the big island and the little island. On the big island, there used to be a tall dead tree the Osprey loved to fish from, diving into the lake and surfacing with a fish in its talons, which it then shifts to a front to back, torpedo position, to make it more stream-lined for flying. The pines on the islands are shaped by the prevailing winds, a century of pressure influencing their branches. I have watched them for fifty years; a half-century of influence on me.