Windy lake at dawn.
Ducks soar over the tops of rolling swells.
I sit inside my camper and sip the instant coffee.
A rocky night awake holding my body uneasily against the gale.
This April the Pacific pressure is crazy.
Here I am reading and meditating on the nature of the universe,
while the universe is meditating on the nature of me.
The disagreements vary widely.
This wild dialog evens out our paradoxes.
At least we’re still talking,
and not angry with one another.
I find a concentrated ease with this cracking wind power.
All my grand ideas are better if dismissed.
None of them will produce a fruit worth tasting.
My imagination has no purpose.
I cannot describe it to others,
and I am deluded by it.
It’s better that I learn to ride out each moment
the way these ducks quack and slide over
the waves, one at a time, all day.
The droplets spraying off the back of the swells
carry their own tiny, temporary rainbows.
How many promises can come to me in one divine moment?