Evening sun

A red rubber slipper floats beside the evening sun. A plastic bag too, or make that two.

The egret stands with egret patience at the edge of the tiny lake. Suddenly it moves as if a spring catch had been released, and its beak jabs into its reflection.

Nothing.

Water drops from the egret’s beak keep its reflection broken up. A bare stunted tree keeps it company.

“Birds could paint themselves into that tree”, I say.

“A ripple from the egret’s movement could make the sun buckle”, says the other person.

“White birds”, I say. “They wouldn’t have to be egrets”.

“In a few seconds its reflection will be perfect again”, the other person says.

“In a few minutes the sun will be gone”, I say.

“In a few years…oh, never mind”, the other person says.

A monologue divided into two is no dialogue. It’s like playing chess against yourself. I get up to go.

evening lake

I soundlessly break

the silence

(In: Whirligig Vol I No. 2, Nov 2010)