The surface of the water at Garrett Lake is a ballroom floor, the bluest of hardwoods. Hiding itself within its leafy forest green walls, which if looked upon closely, one would swear you can see the woods. We blazed a trail past a fallen trunk, presumably lightning struck whose roots had twisted into the shape of a moose fallen to sleep or endure breathe no more, past the row of trees split by the trail. One side Life, the other death. We found our way to an elder pine who wanted to be a pier and dove down so we could sit upon him, no longer on land, legs dangling like a chandelier above the ballroom.