Water-Strider - Sept 23 2026

 

Water-Strider

Sept 23 2026

The setting sun

reflected off the still water

smooth as mirrored glass

tinting it a golden red.

I looked out through slitted eyes

blinded by the glare. 

In the the glassy calm

it almost seemed possible

I could walk on water 

as far as I wanted to.

The way water-striders scoot along

and even stand perfectly still,

poised

with their gossamer legs

spread like tiny struts,

each pod

dimpling the polished glass.

An onshore breeze

sent little riffles

skittering over the lake.

A squall touched down

and touched down again,

skipping over the surface

like a smooth flat stone.

It was as if the wind

had become visible.

As if water and air

had conjured together

in a trick of léger de main.

   . . . Where, I wondered

were fire and earth?

A high pressure system

barrelled in from the north

under clear blue sky.

A brisk west wind

funnelled down the narrows

adding speed,

driving white capped waves

and lashing spray from their tips.

But this all from memory

in this ill-tempered winter

gazing out at the snow.

Now, the lake is still,

locked beneath the ice

in its seasonal sleep.

The biting wind

is a distant noise

just as well ignored,

while in the cool stagnant depths

the sun

has been forgotten for months.

All the striders have gone.

But now, I can walk on water

as far as I want.

But plod, not scoot,

and too cold to stop. 

Of course, it’s fall and way too soon for ice. But today, after 2 days of calm — such perfect glass, it looked firm enough to walk on — an onshore breeze from Lake Superior, which is a giant wind machine not far to the south, sent little riffles over our small lake. So I started to think about the various winds we get, and how they initeract with the surface.

As I wrote, the possibility of walking on water stuck with me. So of course, a sharp turn to winter’s ice-covered lake was the obvious ending. And a good way out. Otherwise, the poem would have simply stopped instead of finishing!