Walking the path to the ocean
Had I not been distracted by the basso profundo frog in the swamp and consequent digressions, I would not have rescued one rusted can and jagged slashes of styrofoam. Had I not knelt by this murky pond to catch some fairytale fish with the answers, I'd have netted more than reflected clouds. Had I not leaned over that slimy water interflowing patterns brown, green, mirrored blue, I would not have seen One hundred pre-metamorphic non-metaphoric tadpoles rippling the surface which, physicists insist, does not move, it's only energy making waves. Had I not been diverted by the territorially imperative redwing blackbirds and dragonflies, my freely associative imagination captive to helicopters and ICBMs, Vietnam, Iran, El Salvador, and by extension, my duty to stave off more wars, I would not have fallen in. Which shows that however noble or pure our intent -- to pursue what is pure, like oceans -- it's danger, stagnation and trash, and sloth in the Maytime sun that draw us in, or down. Also the flash of ephemeral ripple and wing, and the bullfrog's pride.