It looks like the lake on a partly cloudy afternoon. White below blue, then a boat pulling a kid. Then, once the waves pass, gray. Then, you guess, some dusty green murk.
And the lake’s coming at me. But don’t worry. I’m safe inside.
You make a mistake to write from anywhere but … sure, the love may show up as anger or confusion or fear or determination … but love’s informing or mistaken … from the basement and below it.
Or in their beauty they turn away like cattle knowing or not knowing market day comes soon. Or heron-legs tap the lake surface and there’s a little fish. So they fly.