Rock holds the memory of water. Not clean, but a clear memory, not something that was easily remembered. The shallow holes were scattered across the hard stone, clutching the last parts of a dream that was night. Pools that were too small to edgy to matter until you moved closer to them. They held the sky in segments—orange here, a spec of violet there. Not perfect little mirrors, that showed the truth as imperfect memories all at the same time.
Farther out, the lake spread wide, flat, endless, like a page of a book that you get to the end of and it keeps going without a turn. The surface pretended to be calm, but under the calm something kept pulling, shifting. One would feel it in the way of the water as it pressed forward, even when it looked still. Of course, later in the day or the evening coming it would come back. It always did comes back. The waves would empty into the rock again, filling every crevace, erase every reflection. But not yet in this pause.
The sky! Buring slowly. Red bled into orange, orange gradiating into gold. The pools on the stone lit like embers, like a campfire scattered along the shore. Breeze slipped by, but not enough to stir the lake, but enough to create imperfection in one of the puddles, and like that the sky inside, broke apart and re-formed.
For a few minutes, it didn’t feel like sunrise. It felt like the rock, the lake, and the sky were talking it over—who held the past, who carried the present, who would write the next line. Me? I was just lucky enough to be there on that morning at a spot to witness.
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