For me, golf courses are nature's manmade melting pot. Where else can you go and find grass, sand, water, trees, ducks, deer and argyle socks? But the golf course this morning looked sad, a light fog lingering into mid-morning, nary a ray of sunlight poking through the cloud cover. The grass was somehow less green, less radiant--fairway blades blending in with the rough. Even the dirty-dishwater yellow scum on the pond seemed duller than usual. Perhaps Twelve Stones is preparing itself for the end of summer, when the days become shorter, cooler. Maybe the mallards will cheer up tomorrow, Al Roker's calling for sun in the south.
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