The lake is still, just small ripples catching light on different planes making that jeweled shimmer. Stones on the bottom near the shore appear slightly dizzy but clear. A few green leaves have fallen and lodged themselves among the rocks. A cloud drifts between the sun and shore, darkening the waters, dimming my view.
Underneath the leaning pine, the water's calm is broken with a splash. I shift to spot the cause. Another splash out a little farther and then I spot the fish, a large mouth bass I'd guess, cruising toward the warm lit shore for a bite of lunch. I suppose he doesn't feel the absence of arms, but all the time I watch his tail fins propelling him through the water, I feel my arms strapped to my sides, imagining.
The heron wings low over the water, his neck pulled in, his legs drifting out behind, heading toward his nest on the other side of the bay.
The stillness is remarkable--faint hum of distant cars and motor boats, birds whistling their triple-tongued talk, small insects buzzing past and the whirr of the dark dragonfly landing on my sleeve, resting before he continues his calling to catch those damned mosquitos. Occasionally a wave laps on shore with more force, but it has been so long ago that I have forgotten the boat across the lake that made the wake.
And the white pine spreads its big branches flat out, like a brawny man with his arm stretched across the back of the sofa. Bald eagles know this strength and bring branches and sticks to build their nests in the top, trusting the sturdy spread of branches to hold their home and their babies.
And here beside the lake I've built my nest, too, with a home that fits me on this sturdy shore.
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