They will ordinarily convey the entire surface of the lake as one reflection. I have abandoned these letters, markings, and even noises. Some of the clouds were having a theater of themselves, there, where the meadow bled literally into heaven’s verge. I have only these points of departure, which may be flowers or memories, in which I travel to and fro. The entire surface of the one reflection. Who can really say what those clouds are up to?