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As one watches from this point, he feels as if he were spying on the garden. The garden, in turn, seems to be unaware of his presence. The wind blows and the goose-skinned, silvery surface of the water quickly moves leeward and then returns to its dark-green stillness. Once in a while a fish jumps, and ripples run across the pond. Everything responds quickly to the wind. The reflections of stones and trees become warped in the water, looking like bamboo blinds as they sway. Across the pond, on Wisteria Isle, the trees are almost depressingly green, but something there-a delicate carmine-colored cluster of flowers-is moving to and fro at the top of a tall branch. It is a crape myrtle, signaling the end of summer. As the wind blows through the bows of the dense woods beyond, black mouths open among the clusters of leaves as if they were speaking.