December was always a nice month. Between winter break and the hope of snow, there was always something to do. My aunt, brother, dog and I went down to a small town by a river to walk. We walked along the rough gravel path, past dilapidated houses and one beautiful boat. The dock to which they were tied looked ready to collapse, as the waves from a passing speed boat gnawed at its pillars. My aunt was uneasy, and when we passed an old trailer that had been scorched beyond repair, she made the wise decision to turn around. Although it was the exact same path, the gloomy backstreet suddenly became a well-groomed park. The gravel path shifted into a well-maintained boardwalk and people walked in small groups everywhere. It was a stark contrast to the world that existed further down the path. It seemed almost too orderly. Lime green lawns that were suited for a golf course bordered tall ornate doll houses. The only imperfection was the sluggish, gray river that ran the length of the park. The stench of dead fish and motor oil drifted up from it, so no one stayed too long on the pier. The quiet babbling of many families and distant cars was suddenly torn apart by a loud roar. The speedboats engine snarled and grumbled, leaving a huge wake. Everyone stopped to watch it pass, which it shows off. We continued on our walk, my dog straining on her leash, dragging me towards some unseen squirrel high in the trees. Everything was softer in the forest. The cool December light was filtered through the sparse remaining leaves, casting everything in an emerald light. A stagnant puddle, overgrown with skunk cabbage made for a lovely smell, but like everything else, we soon passed it. It was replaced by the smell of fir trees and leaf mulch, a relief from the earlier odors. As we passed a particularly well-lit log, draped in moss and ferns, I seized the opportunity for a photo. Coaxing my dog onto the log, I convinced her to stay. the sunlight seemed to embrace her, every flickering beam glowing through her coat. The fern leaves caught the son too, creating tiny delicate shards of stained glass. I always find it fascinating how different places can be, even though they are so close.