Seeing Here

Cupping my hand over my eyes, I am able to shade out the glare of the sun and gaze farther outward. Now I see where the bank irregularly encircles the water like weathered skin surrounding an exposed body. Light not yet shut out accents the current of the pond’s breath with sparkles that leap from the surface, glimmer ever so briefly in the air, and vanish while I blink. I stare mesmerized by their momentary promise of permanence. Possibility guided by involuntary transformations.

A cloud snuffs out the sparks of light while gradually blanketing the pond in shadow. The water takes on a denser quality, with silver mercury circles indenting the surface like rain dropping without a splash. Each drop rests to take its shape on top of the resistant opaque exterior, and bounces off again. For an instant I am deceived into believing the drops are mirror images of stones on the pond’s bottom, but they are instead likenesses of a less tangible inhabitant that resides along with the stones. It is not as clear as I would like.

A green field is a simple backdrop to the intricately interlocked branches that form layers of borders around the bank. Murky reflections of trees are cast into the pond, and there is no bouncing where the facade is darkest. Though the water seems still at that distance, the impetus for the current is there in the shadows. Wind gusts through the barren branches to churn the surface and fill my inhaling lungs. Naked of leaves, trees hold their shape against the breeze that lifts hair off my face. A squirrel nest tests the strength of an upper branch, and does not fall, knowing better than to lean on what will break. The base of the tree to my left stands straight with a posture immune to the branches lengthening dominantly from its water facing side. The tree is not leaning to weigh itself down with the task of growth, but extending assuredly out to embrace its energy sources.

The pole posted in the pond does not know to read its own ‘Danger’ sign. It is spotted with brown rust where water wore off its original coating of paint: the color of plush grass. The blades of grass that surround me are mostly brown, and sometimes green, but rarely both brown and green, illustrating the distribution of sun and water along the bank. They are not uniformly flattened, but laying down in a multitude of directions; the result of the ground’s failure to reach a consensus with all that tread on it. The breeze does not linger to wait for a decision, but sighs while passing over the paralyzed blades.

Grazing my eyes over the landscape, I find imperceptible points of change in the blend of colors and motion. The pond is predominantly brown and black, but another’s blue jacket illuminates the blue hiding amongst it. My stare stops to seat itself on an empty green bench facing me in the field. Looking back at myself, I time both sets of blinks so as not to miss anything. Silhouettes of two geese gliding by are connected as they traverse a path through the beam of light between the bench and myself. They move through the current together to rest where it beats the wavy profile of the land.

A single leaf is suspended vertically between rocks balancing on the slanted pond bottom. It leans backward more and more until the waves force it out of its stance, and sinks before reaching shore. Sticks float in place having fallen from above, simultaneously pointing both toward and away from my boots, fighting their entrapment in the eddy.

Flashes of light flicker against my closed eyelids. I cannot see the surface to tell if they are bouncing off of my illuminated personal current to show a body rushing within its containment, pushing against its borders equally in all directions. With no direct outlet to gush from, it is too large to remain motionless, too small for swells of change. The geese swim across my lids, and nuzzle in the nests of my tear ducts. There they drink from recycled reflections of the familiar. I allow them to remain until the wind again climbs my cheekbone. As the cool air passes through my lashes, I turn my head, rebuffing its cling. It slides off me, and I ripple my eyes to nudge the geese to ride it. Tracing their flight into the sun, I’m blinking to avoid being blinded by intermittent flashes of uncertainty that play in this reservoir of dreams.