Brackish water
mottled with lily pads
the color of green beans,
rust, day-old dog shit,
goldenrod.
A cluster shimmies ~
one, then the next, shakes.
This one pulses,
that one acts like a cog:
brief urgent forward,
only to settle back.
The Jesus bugs
are here, as hoped,
skimming water,
barely a ripple
reveals them.
The longer I look,
the more there is
to see.
Frogs I thought
curiously absence
are, in fact, not:
Just my ability
to perceive them
until a half hour
has adjusted me
to the quiet
of this place.
Decay, too, is here:
soothing and ominous.
Pine needles lost
from their mother tree
are now spindly floats
that will eventually sink.
Down is where
I cast my eyes
to find suspended forms
of agile orange
wend their way
in the water.
A single dragonfly
just entered
and exited
the scene.
And always ~
always ~
this wind,
this breath.
(cc) Karen G. Johnston
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