I threw a rock into a pond and watched the circles form around.
The circles grew and spread unbound, and mixed with other waves they found, the fish who made the surface bounce, the tracing of a willow branch, the rustle of a flop of wings, the stirring from what lives beneath.
Their patterns mingled up with mine; they didn't drown, they amplified the wave that went on without me to echo in infinity
and made things beautiful and odd in ways I never would have thought, a complicated quilted chart of how the strands of time are wrought,
a future made by my own hand who turned on me to shape itself and who preferred the willow's touch, the fish's bite, the otter's scratch,
who turned a perfect circle dance to something I can't recognize, I can't describe, I can't control, I can't make sense of it at all!
It isn't mine, it isn't mine, my sadness made me drunk like wine, but I can't take that moment back, that moment when I threw the rock.