A journal of narrative writing.
The Wide Lake of Our Knowing

Bobbin-weave through blue and knit this picture. Square it small and tufty on the back. Fill it incomplete, our portion of lake at the bottom of the yard, the waves struggling like breaths. We thought it was the future until she dropped her mother in. The water closed over her head like a prayer. We thought it was the reason we were building the boat, why we quarreled in the canoe. At sunset, glowing like a slab of steel. There were never chickens back there or monsters, just things seen in a funny light— overhead, hazard, mooring. Then she slipped in, too. (All the fuss was in the yard.) That wash of mercury. Was it silence itself with its withholding vegetable green? The waves flapped like laundry on the line. Child’s play to reflect or drown, go dark or glint like a steel plate on which nothing can rest.