Long-legged at the shore, she steps
and dips her net.
Across the lake, a heron
divines his dinner.
My daughter follows the minnows and their synchronous
shadows — sparks that dash and
turn like glitter, fountaining
out of reach.
On the dock, a Mason jar
filled with lake-water, furnished with weeds, rocks and one fine
flake of mica — home for the day if your name is Topaz,
Flash or Pandora,
each fish — translucent — striped
deep in the centre with a miniature
backbone of silver.
I look up from my book,
wish to capture
my daughter like this: intent
yet idle, her grace taken shape in time’s
fluid material, there in the shallows —
a weave of sunlight
loose at her ankles.
Reprinted by permission.