The pond carries creatures at its surface,
near air. They skitter and circle their food
and each other. Mated, in ecstatic unions,
they dance among green fronds, watersnakes,
many-legged insects skating and bouncing
on the trampoline-tensioned surface
of the pond.
From The Morning Show to The News At Six, eons pass.
The pond life plays atop currents,
currents deep down to the ooze
and muck and eggs of the bottom. In contrary motion interlaced,
warm and cool currents
carry all creatures dancing, circling
always near air, at the surface.
The great slow current that cannot continue forever,
the enormous and irresistibly effortless drift
that contains all movement, all creatures, surfaces, eggs, mates,
slides everything across, intersects all directions,
gathers us and gathers all of our surfaces
towards a thundershredding torrential overfall
at the only edge there ever was.