The sapling stands beside the rain-swelled lake, both reflecting on the good fortune of existence. An uncut stone, left by masons or ice, accepts where it lies as fair exchange for being’s simple pleasure. Between the three, the dissatisfied columns march silently past the stones of their dead. All that remain of this faithful army, perhaps they are called by misted heights to distract from their fallen state. This is how it always works. The new masters arrive in the night’s dreams and expectations, order their monuments, fail to withstand time. Only the distance from then to now varies. That, and how steep the price exacted from the servants.