for months we stood at the edge,
onlookers to the life within the waters.
we watched the mallard slice his way,
almost miraculously mediating between worlds.
the world above; the world below.
we witnessed the art of the large-mouth bass
with a wanton stroke of his tail sending
the surface rippling into song.
but today we stand in joyful defiance
upon what only before we could watch.
now we dance where feet never dared walk
and lend our voice to the glazen song.
we tread upon a miracle, an anomalous
gift of the season . but the sun will mark the
completion of our role in this song.
we'll make our way back to the banks
from which we came, to watch the native
dance resume. the song of the herons,
the geese and tadpoles. carp and kingfisher,
turtle, bluegill, and dragonfly. after all,
this is their stage, the home to which
they belong. we are merely lucky visitors.
but we will watch for our chance again.
when the sun veils his face long enough
and the northern wind blows strong enough
to turn the tides of possibility.
and our faith find feet in the dance
of the glazen lake.
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