I wanted to write about the wind
but instead I find words like wait
or fury which are somewhat appropriate,
but not really. The day lifts and the lake
rolls with a longer skim of dragonflies than
yesterday. I skip flat stones and contemplate
the places where they end. This was a note
to you but now I’m underlining stones and
rings from skipping. Sometimes, if the angle
separates right, I can see the reflection of rock—
connections that were dropped and hidden.
When the moment closes, I reach for the next.
The pathways that lead to you must curve
the other side of this shifting lake, end
somewhere below the surface.
