Crossing

I sit on the slope and watch the stream. It is steady in flow. Yet every wave that slaps the rock throws out its own water ring. I want to jump across the stream from jagged stone to rock moss - but I am wary of my balance.

I revere acrobates whose every movement is tuned to the swing of the bar - all trust in timing - no blame assigned to the trapeze. The flyer's mind is blank to all but the flight, to the grasp of the bar 50 feet above the ground - 6 inches away from death or life.

I pull myself up from the hill. I jump step the stones across the stream under a throbbing sun.