High Summer

The weekend drone of launches, light aircraft.
In the stream's tumult, I trawl for images.
My shadow floats in a hagiography of
lambent spears — bent light in a murky jewel.
Soft on my palm, air risen from crabs.
Freelance carbuncles, small jellyfish
drift past trailed by tentacles of weed,
en route to weightier aquamarine.
I lie sheathed in scalding radiance.
My knee crosses the treed horizon, blocks
the ghost half-moon; the tide reaches my toes.
Only the white-faced heron airing its wings
has mastery of the way ceaseless change
may find accord with complete stillness.