Letter from Skinny Atlas

I’m just a plainspoken Colorado criminal defense lawyer, but the way I see it…

This is a letter from myself. Written from a skipping stone’s throw of Skaneateles Lake in upstate New York. It’s the easternmost of that state’s Finger Lakes (apparently named after someone with a surplus digit).

It’s a good place to jump into after a set of tennis, a volleyball match with folks still learning to volley the ball, or reading about the latest grift our most recent ex-president has been up to. 

It’s where I’ve been all month, and nearly every summer since I met the woman who took this picture. Its water is so calming it might have been named Lake Serenity, revivifyingly cool, and as clear as the antique crystal you’ll find in most of the homes around here.

She finds much more in it than I do — she’s been coming here all her life — and her photo, one of dozens she took of the water this summer, has saved us far more than a thousand words of my poor description.