The jug of milk left casually on the counter is a reminder that, left to its own devises, this coffee morning can easily stretch on into early afternoon.
Time moves differently here. City time is discarded with the wrist watches abandoned on bedside tables. Lake time is measured instead in the movement of the clouds, the shifting of the prevailing wind and the barely perceptible passage of sun over water. Fishing boats setting forth and later returning to shore are the only concessions to human circadian rhythms.
Tucked into the far corner of the kitchen, the microwave - with its digital face - inserts its timekeeping only enough to heat a forgotten cup of coffee grown tepid, or to acknowledge the persistent growling of a tummy in search of a snack.
It’s not perfect, of course, this abandonment of big city time. The casual disregard of furnace repairmen who promise to show up and never do quickly loses its charm. But the seasons don’t care. The drama of the clouds will continue to strut across the stage of the enormous sky, sunlit ripples will forever play across the open water, fish will continue to hunt and spawn and die. Even if the pipes do burst or the house burns down.