1.
In the lake, 8 a.m., swallows dipping for the new hatch of flies, green water, I am looking out as I side-stroke from one group of cedars to another, looking out at water level, islands shining as the first sun comes over the mountain. All night, too warm for sleep, I thought about this moment.
2.
I thought about this moment, feet in sand graphic with bird tracks, heart-shaped prints of deer, a dead crayfish under the hardhack. I have become a recluse, phone on mute, shoulders tired from carrying buckets of water to thirsty trees. Yesterday a hummingbird panicked as I entered the greenhouse, forgetting the bougainvillea, desperate for escape.
3.
I thought about water when I couldn’t sleep. I should have taken my towel and gone to the dark lake, surprising deer at the water’s edge. I should have pushed my arms out, sore shoulders grateful for the cool air, stroked in darkness, with only the stars for light. Instead I walked out onto the deck where the lilies smelled like paradise and an owl called a single note from far away.
...Theresa Kishkan 