The pond rested empty for some time before she stepped into the mud,
studying the bottom, smooth then, strewn with white stones, rime
growing on the ground in the mornings. In this divided sphere, she stood vertiginous,
eyes where she dived when the pond brimmed; or more often observing others
with white shimmers opening where the divers dove. Seventy-two hours
seemed short, nine months too, showing the sunsets to be nothing but moths
tempted to fire. She studies the bottom, busy with judgments, feet freezing,
burning in their muddy position. She got over the opportunity before the worms
furrowed ridges on the pond's bottom into her feet, deep in the notion reverie
substitutes for memory, the dissent to grip the time she'd been given in the depths.
If she'd found her spirit to be within, rising from the then brown ooze, there might
be more to be seen, but now, even from within the pond's bed, the breeze
is quite refreshing, stringing her beside it. Her strength formed on those edges
of summer, when she found the rivers to be some unique thing with every sight.
Often summer found her thin; more often, it found her gone, buried under the infinite
number of exteriors she wore with differing degrees of ennui. Removed hours
before the opportunity for her to grow into worms or moths or her mother.
If she were found to be within it, rising from within the extended, honed edges,
then the obvious turns into fresh strings of horrors hung on the edge of summer.
She thought her position frozen. It is the best opportunity: the grooves in her dress
thronging with sedge-bugs. One might find most of them rising from within,
then he or she might see the obvious strength she formed when she buried her dress
during the summer night in thin mud on the bottom of the pond. She buried it
to forget here position during the event, bottom up but with rounded spurs
driving him on. She wished it reversed; there were the infinite number of degrees
forming in his every motion. The first, see-through, smooth, strenuous to study. Then
more suffering—better yet, her suffering; his desire. If nothing more, they were beings
with honest minds, defined expressions, strength turned stronger before forfeiting hope.