My initial notes after standing on the water’s edge:
‘The birds have mostly settled for the night, and their end of day conversation takes place by a pool near the viaduct.
They are just shadows now.
I can see both the water and the sky layered in peach. The air is cool and still, and I am enjoying looking.
About twenty feet away, a fish leaps – for a fly, I presume. An ellipse of ripples spreads in front of me. Fish begin to leap in other parts too, unaware of their own criss-cross patterns.
I watch the surface bend and flatten.
I think now about the creatures churning a few feet down, the flatties, the shrimps, the shore crabs. Eating, fighting, surviving.
Then, what appears to be a serpent sidewinds towards me through the water.
It is a vapour trail from a plane above, closely followed by a second. It reaches the water’s edge, and disappears.
I suddenly become aware that there are not only creatures below me, but people above, too.
I stop being me.
I remember how difficult things are.’
Then the woodland brought a new kind of interruption. The same thread, but another way of looking at things:
It doesn’t matter where I look.
Again I find the surface broken.