Below the Still
Summer morning,
warm with no wind.
The bay waters are calm.
Small boats settle like ducks
incubating their own reflections.
Yet everything is just a thin
membrane of order
pulled tight over a seething
chaos that boils just below the still.
Something is hidden, kept
from sight by a lull
smeared across the gentle float
and lap of lazy thoughts.
A trip wire is stretched
somewhere in the shadows
of a familiar path waiting
for a foot.
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