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Weekly Contest #309
The air was as crisp as a dragon fly’s wings and Lancington Lake dutifully reflected all the surrounding lights in the spring air. It gave a yawn of forgiveness for the encroaching darkness, swallowing its memories of so many people who now found it warm enough during the day to swim in its fold. Too cold to swim in now, there were people in all manner of laissez-faire outfittings sitting idly and wistfully at its edges. Sanjo and Conner sat together by the lake under a cottonwood tree on a Mexican falsa blanket that was just large enough fo...
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