The Lake

A solitary scrap of weed wanders around the vast expanse of liquid. It is searching for those who used to surround it, but it will never find the again; they are concealed beneath a veil of greeny-blue lake water.
The surrounding bay is glassy and smooth, unmarred by the breath of wind which whispers to the water further out, ruffling it through dappled patches of sunlight and shadow. Golden snippets of sunlight dance upon the water's surface. They hurt your eyes. The only other sparkle, barring the all-powerful sun, comes from the town sprawled across the lake's far side, shop windows glinting. They call to those who wish to worship there on a Sunday morning.
Dip a toe in the water. Particles of cold numb it, raking a resulting shiver through your body. It is cold for swimming, but those who cannot resist the sparkle are lured to the water's edge - one contemplative figure, at present.
The boats are not afraid of the cold. They bob over the water, several trawling hopeful-looking fishing lines, which dawdle lazily along behind. A large cruiser combs the lake's long tangled hair, neatly parting the water before it. A striped buoy floats with the incoming white wake, but is returned to its rightful place by a stout rope, which anchors it to the lake's depths. The purposeful rope has no sense of adventure and ignores the buoy's tug - as a small child pulling a busy mother's skirt.
"Quack!" rends the crisp air, startling all who hear. With that, a sleek-feathered plump figure waddles along the bank. Opposed to this noisy duck, one can spot a tiny dragonfly. Flitting, darting, a creature of feather-light and fantasy, no noise is heard. In the distance, barely discernible, is the plop-plop-plop of a fishing motor, wending its way along the bay. The trees too must be heard, a silent screaming found in their starkness revealing their eternal sacrifice to the power line arrowing through them. The power line stands still and silent. It ignores the futile wails of the trees. Does it not understand, or just not care?
Not like the tui and the bellbird, always calling, warble warble, a never-ending dialogue. Voices mingle, and one suspects something more than simple niceties are being exchanged. The vivid blue sky is stretched as far as the eye can see, with puffy clouds dawdling around the edges, hesitant to venture further at this time of day. The pause above their benevolent grandfather, Tauhara, who sits wreathed in smiles. He cares for all those under his domminion. The cold wind, appointed as his guard, begins to snap fiercely at any who dare to intrude with noon's onset. It too has a right to this place, as a citizen of Tauhara's kingdom.
The kingdom is in jeopardy - man's invasion has begun.