On Being Still

I am still. I am still and beside the waters edge. I am still except my pen as I write. I am still but it is not. It, the water, rippling water, reflects the sky above and trees beside as a diamond with many facets. It, the sky, blue sky, changes the water as the clouds block and reveal the sun.

All is still on the far bank. Except for the wind. It shakes the trees from left to right. The boughs bend downward and the green leaves flutter to and fro.

I am still but for the fly that has landed on my shoe. Away and return.

The clock strikes twelve.

The ducks are not still. The coot is not still. Ever gliding across the rippling water and pruning their feathers. All is quiet save the birds. Till one duck splashes furiously and squaks at another. A short chase ensues. A white butterfly dances above the water for a moment and then returns to its hiding place within the foliage.

All is quiet, natural noise. I make not a sound. Then comes the gutteral hum of the lawn mower.

All is not still and quiet.