In autumn chill I sat at the edge of a deep blue lake.
It was placid as the stillness of the moon in solitary space.
Silently as if stirred by the slightest briefest breath,
Perfect circles in a series broke the surface, moving outward.
I watched the widening whorl travel to the edge then bounce back.
Something—or someone—had touched the water.
Maybe it was a bird dipping down or a fish twitching its tail.
Maybe a dry leaf riding a draught had made a splash landing.
When the waves had spent their energy, the lake becalmed again.
It shone purely, a polished mirror of the sky: blue to blue.
I felt the cold wet air rise but did not hear the wind swirl.
I waited for one hour and the surface stayed serene.
Originally published in Brew Your Best Year (September 9, 2014), an online publication of The Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf
|Lake George (1869) by John Frederick Kensett|