Seasons

Rushing summer after summer. Max was getting used to it, like accepting the change of seasons. Here was the season of study with its rushing sea of people; then came the season of solitude, time to consolidate, time to illustrate his collection. Max didn’t know which he liked more. Maybe the winter, when it was quiet, when the leaves fell off the trees and his grounds were covered in white. He would walk to the pond with his hounds and look at the frozen surface. Max began to wonder whether he was made for the clean and quiet surfaces, or for the busy surfaces, full of ink and activity. Each had its appeal although Max couldn’t endure either indefinitely.