Morning, atop a large rock,
a stone lily pad
in the middle of the stream,
a team-span wide.
Cold waters lap at the edges,
while one can ride dry,
at the high and round rump.
I’m there in perfectly old,
tattered blue-wool pullover,
weighted right against
the vigor of this new day.
How wonderful to have
so much morning remaining
to while away.
Dense clusters of small gnatty flyers
dance in ancient patterns,
in the vee-rays of early sun,
radiant light, pervasive heat,
waves in mirage, they flutter there,
bursting from vernal pools.
Rainbows used to dance here,
leave small wakes, glide on eddies,
do backstrokes, with no one watching.
Masterful puppeteer of lightweight test,
set dry flies still,
perfectly still.
With but the slightest
tremor, concentric break of the surface,
from the rainbow’s vantage.
Just enough to stir curiosity,
a sniff, a poke,
enough to spring the snap.
Nothing sadder than a rainbow in mid-air,
regretting prior impulse.
The change is sudden, inevitable,
decisive.
Snow on Battenkill
falls in crunches,
bunches in feet to yards
high, the wisteria that bough low to the banks,
shaggy, warm under all the cold,
lilac tongues out panting,
with winter body heat,
home to dead butterfly larvae;
dome holds the sound in,
the sound out;
you can walk anywhere,
the terrain is level,
white and wet.
Though not witnessed by anyone or anything,
I left footprints in November,
in the carry along the north rise,
that held their shape and depth,
through March.
I look forward to final frost,
to clear and distinct birthing,
of all that is,
there ever was.
The future is merely supposition.
Isn’t it? The ice, the same as the dew.
I would rather choke
on the freezing waters
filled with silt from the moving,
running bottom,
than trapped in the upper layers,
locked frozen in time.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Please see here for the original Battenkill
