SWALLOWS. Small, elegant birds, that fly with the flourish and command of a figure skater; swallows chase insects low across the water.
A wingtip tracing the water surface explodes into the jaws of a large pike, and one bird is gone. The surface purls.
transfixed, on a float, vacantly wondering how such a high speed intercept
between lake and sky could be possible. Then, it happened again!
Leaving, Im embarrassed by my noisy flying machine in the presence of the swallows.
Still, a shiny little floatplane, skimming between water and air on a brassy solstice evening, is also a thing of grace. One can only be grateful to be a part of that. Grateful, and watchful, too...there are always bigger fish down there.