| Wave Hands Like Clouds Water level gives telltale mark, signs brown and caked. Silt left behind, clue to unravel the turbid watercourse history. Dig hard into the lake, pull back, feather, glide forward. I have known the heights and power to which the storm will swell these banks. In a sense, we are given a subterranean view, a rare intimation into chi flows that connect hidden meridians of nature’s outstretched contours, supine river body, bed of restive mud sloughing up like our own depths and dramas. This was all under water a day ago. These are the bones of the flood. Surprising how shallow it is just under the surface. Long gray spread of slow wing’s air under the blue heron’s watchful gaze. We have surprised her. Bolts of quick spray, blue mottled against bark, as wood ducks rush to follow. Surprising how insistent wind and current centers in the deeps, pushing on, eddying and buckling surface crests. A river lies stealthy as a predator under glassy still and green embankments. Whirligigs lead everywhere and nowhere, like Lao Tsu under drooping hibiscus. We cut flat wakes, stands of cattails, red sugar maple, slapping surface gently, easing into to wet lands. Grasp the swallows tail. Here it can be. The flood has spent itself, leaving us to remain with a subtler, revealed hand; sweeping wide, an egret’s long stroke, tracing motion in power soft surrounding all. Swimming within an ocean of energy. Push, pull again, sway, one form leads into another. Only a Master can go slow, stop time, stop self. Turtle disappears before being seen, silver fish dart outside of the mind’s periphery. White crane spreads wings, align. Perfect. Feel it? A walk on the island reveals the invisible: Strands of the Golden Orb Weaver allow the strong fingers of wind to pass through her home, but careful, you may find she catches more than the wailing cicada. Figure after figure, chi surges, retreats, collects, releases. Who can know it? Like a child’s game we spin into the invisible, chart stance, bend, thrust, still to center. Yellow lilies open, thrusting barely perceptible scent onto an unseen stream of waning thermal lift. As soft as milkweed floss it seems, but a riot of ecstasy to the uncoiling tongue of fritillaries. Stalk, rise from the water, arc to seek the mirror. Ripple, roll and fall away. Light dances on the underside of lily pads. Wave hands like clouds. written September 21, 2000 |