From the wing chair covered in brocades of cream, through the variegated leaves of the pothos in the porcelain pot glazed with orange blossoms, the lake rushes in equal potencies of green, grey and blue. It reflects. Mist drifts steadily across in streams of softnesses with pale blue sky patchily appearing and sun that reveals its presence on the blinding whiteness of cumulus clouds over there. The sky is like a steamer rushing by. The lake is greener at the shore and around the islands in contrast to the band of deep blue towards the horizon.
In the distance to the East, look, the mist is broiling into a squall and the water froths with whitecaps and it looks as if the turbulent sky has fallen into the water, their boundaries disturbed.
Elsewhere, patches of snake green appear and disappear on the surface of the water according to the whims of the fleeting sky.
The winds blow the mist at velocities I can only imagine. What appears like steam billows past the window at race neck speeds.
Despite the rippling shoulders and back of the lake, the harbours in the islands are still. Like moments of meditation.
Sheath of feeling. Words groping to touch air.
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We had that "steamer" effect shrouding the moon last night during our walk. Wonderful imagery here; I love the contrast between froth and meditation.
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