Summer in the Desert

Slicing through,
not efficient but efficient enough,
a wet, senior-discount glide,
following the slow, long black line
while below
white and gold threads shimmer,
interlocking, then not--a silent evanescent weave.
Stroke, breathe,
stroke, stroke,
stroke, breathe,
touch and repeat.
Clouds and violent sun above,
a flat blue beneath,
and repetition in-between--stroke after stroke, breath after breath,
time after time.
So to be in the moment,
to break the boring slicing of the lane,
I write verse in my head.

7-10-11