Water, flower, glass

On the solstice I rented a paddle board and rowed out to where the waterlilies were growing, under the watchful eye of a heron on a piling. At the edge of the mat of lobed leaves as big as dinner plates, which the beavers roll into scrolls to eat, I stopped paddling, so as not to become entangled with the deep cords anchoring each leaf. As I drifted alo…