Reflections of fireflies dot the pond.
A smooth gray rock drops in and disturbs the surface.
The waves bend and scramble the water
and the fireflies' images dance and jump from place to place.
I sink into cold and prickling grass,
enjoying the ribbons of sun-heat dragging themselves West
as the day ends. I'm approaching a stillness.
My waves are giving up; my ghosts have tired of leaping about.
For the masque.