Standing at the edge of the lake, in the middle of the water meadow—a lake that fills or empties on the whim of a cloud—I think about how much there is to learn if only you listen.

“Nothing stays,” the wavelets whisper, “and that’s okay.”

The wind blows rain into my face, rounded drops sharpened to knives by the cold. They stipple the surface of the lake in untraceable patterns: serenity amidst chaos. The shower is brief, passing over and moving on; dissolving in the flap of the swallow’s wing.

Clouds fill the sky, from the railway line in the south, to the horses grazing to the north.


Except for the jagged-edged crack that hangs above the lake, where the light comes streaming in.

Daffodils and early tulips nod as I walk past, waving a brief hello before fading underground into next year’s memory, next spring’s dazzling dawn.

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