Here, below the falls, on the surface of the clear quiet pools,
A ballet unfolds: scooters, skaters, skippers, striders, skimmers,
Skeeters, Jesus bugs, making light of your reflection.
Someday you may be crucified, for all they know.
After all, men still do such things. Women, too.
Or, you may simply sink, like a stone.
Into the primitive. The wise.
August 7, 2021
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Categories: New Poems & Pieces