Did my ancestors look into

this clear water, loving the

white quartz rocks as much as

their mossy brown sisters?

 

Were these rocks, to them, not the same

and not different?

 

Did the women of the nation or just one imaginary woman,

conjured by me after all, for company,

did she once upon a time, sit on a smooth rock

on the shore of this small island growing out of deep lake,

and did she also watch eagles soar?

 

On this warm morning in September

everything seems possible. Especially soaring.

 

Parades of pine needles float by

and two toothy birch leaves, belly up and golden,

sail along, brought from a higher perch

overnight by a strong south wind.

 

I want to ask the ancestors what it means to write

about beauty and water and wind and even

slippery time without missing this moment.

 

And what are beauty or sadness before humans name them?

Named or not, ripples from the south wind brush

against my eyelashes. Eyes wide open, I watch black insects

skating among tall reeds in dark, shallow water.

 

Sun is climbing.

 

Wind is telling me everything is

not the same and not different.

 

A deep breath tells me I am nothing but a south wind.