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Sitting on the rocks above those rocks,
soon the whole outcropping will be
slick with rain.
And I will slide and cling, tearing up
my hand on rock
to get down.  Jagged rip across my hand:
blood and rain.

For now, the glass of lake mirrors
clouds, changes and breaks
in fog piercing,
in droplets' circles.

Silent, oars dipping through silver,
John Isaacson crosses to the cold island
in mist:
A far worse place to be than this,
these rocks.

For now, I am content to sit
perched here and soaked,
watching clouds, low enough to be
the breath of mountains
silver the day, the rocks and the water.

-Jim LaVilla-Havelin, published in Voices in the Gallery: Writers on Art