Tuesday, March 15, 2005

IN THE BEGINNING the pond the man made wept in its alien space. It lay blindered, the proud flesh of its own wound concealing the desert world it used to be. But you know it's learning a thing or two it never knew before: Minnows shifting quietly in the shadow of its clavicle. Tickle of crawdads scuttling on its gut. Freezes. Thaws. Larval metamorphoses. The gratitude of mallards. It's true one day the pond will lose itself to a hundred-year flood, or else the stream that feeds it will wander off and it will wake up mired in dense felts of algae still in the throes of smothering polliwogs. But the pond has time. There's always enough, really. It carries on its practice. Being still. Breathing. Before long mark my words that pond the man made will know how to mirror the great Looped Nebula even as it shudders under the wing-beats of moths. 10:34:33 AM    comment []