I saw these this past summer. Hopefully, you can see them now:

Two ponds.  One sits upon an earthen, green meadow dam.  The small embankment, steep and grassy, leads to a large oblong twin pond which spreads out tight and small before it balloons into a vast dark expanse surrounded by overgrowth and serenaded by a cacophony of bullfrogs.

Between the two ponds, at the opening of the rolling meadow which spans out to the tree-line horizon  in the distance, stands proudly a 150 year old oak.  Massive pillar trunk, thicker than those on a Greek memorial, points upward toward a canopy all of its own, a great expanse, breathless in the wind, holding its own world, its own forest animals, its own stories. 

In the foreground sits a rock, flat, high, dimpled with a chipmunk’s pond, room enough for two for gazing, pondering, writing, staring at the oak monster; the old fella who oversees the meadow, shaping its form deep into the gentle pastures from the tall shadows of the evening, cascading sun.

The rock waits for a writer. A poet. A lover. It waits to be discovered.  It waits to be cherished.