Only the pause in movement and dynamism
can afford sense to a scene so peaceful –
where peace only haunts the pauses – memory & image.
No past looms and no future portends – neither
overborn of the other, determined nor regulated
beyond the perfect still.
The dumb glassy blank eyes are permanently shut, in this moment,
and, too, in this moment, the thick limber neck cranes downwards,
and the tongue caught mid lap to secure fleeting portions of rushing
water, itself frozen not by cold or chemistry, but in its memorial
pause. The sun blotches still a pattern – tattooing the grass patches.
A second add upon either side of this image creates so much life –
symphony of bird calls, their own emotional world of struggle – the marbled
sun through the trees violently bustles with each curling leaf, itself
at the wind’s whimsy & play.
The craning neck is cautious and tender – the eyes unbind & flicker
with skitish abandon. Our little peace is slowly corrupted by time.
Wincing and flinching – protective attentiveness ringing drone through the
play and froth.
The river runs evermore in violence and carries specks for miles down
its prescribed path & arteries.
With time, the stillness becomes a corruption, where even a picture or memory
cannot quite preserve. Bless the dear & forest & rills & all their
many still moments before God’s omniscient gaze.