a one-inch serpent-twig, the suspended "I,"
its double pair of barely air-dried wings
sewing one moment to the next. Quietness
makes it clear: it's not an exact equation,
the weight of clouds and the dusty mirror
of the pond. The nymphs are always hatching.
Something is always disturbing the surface,
changing the leeway: future perfect, past
imperfect, this green ocean of air in between.
- Margaret Holley