At the lake
Walking clockwise on the path
Hand on heart.
I am enough.
I love you.
You are okay.
Listen to the trilling nightingales at this start of day
Do they ask themselves if their trill is good enough?
They sing and sing, heedless
Fly and perch, alight upon the nearest trees, breast unconsciously aflutter with every exhaled song, unaware of themselves, but only of their surroundings, as they flit along
Singing across the lake.
A black bird on the log railing by the land bridge — a crow? A raven? Blue-black, even its beak; eye like a jewel. Wing fingers spread wide, cocking its head to the side, another flight
The shirtless man on the tractor is mowing the long grasses
annoyed he has to wait.
I increase my gait.
There, another man pees upon a tree, I pretend I don’t see. When I pass, he looks uneasily at me
The sky is blaze blue; canicule. But in the lake it’s grey, meeting the outline of the trees, collided collage of two dimensions, faded in between. The water is dimpled here, but lined there, like etchings on a vinyl record freshly poured
on a hot beach. Mirage
I am in the moment and I am alive;
it’s one time I don’t wish I were someone else inside
—someone better or someone worse.
I had some words
so I sang a verse.