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
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