Rolling over stationary rocks,

In this glaucous pond,

With a raucous audience

 Watching with a reserved enthusiasm,

Fingers crossed,

Waiting for a leg to be broken.

During this dance.

Next to an off-white hospital,

But never free from injury.

This slight waterfall,

Never rushing at a obscene pace,

Like many runaway rivers sometimes do,

Instead only trickling along,

Providing silence for the herrings that stalk the microscopic

Tadpoles,

With strikes similar to lightning.

(In the same motion and breath as a shovel to moist soil)

That upon extermination,

Send tidal waves throughout this fragile ecosystem.

Sending seismic waves that rattle sunken

Limbs and leaves,

Distributed from the top-heavy trees hanging just above this body of water,

(Too afraid to dive all the way in)

Limber lumber engaging in decomposition

Beneath the creases of  the careful ripples,

Beneath the waves,

Shedding skins,

Changing colors.

Beneath the waves.

Occasionally a tin  can riverboat

It’s minuscule slot machines long ago cashed out by lucky ghosts,

That left behind only empty glasses,

Ice cubes still slowly melting.

Next to the dead machines.

So someone would be able to have a second drink.

Or

Some other virtuous debris,

Some elaborate yachts,

Chartering these open waters,

These open green waters.

Green with both envy and plight.

Find their way into the deepest depths of

Detention

Of this  polluted retention pond.

Initially,

The invisible captains of these

Valiant vessels,

Stand atop the crows-nest,

Sword by their side,

Eye to eye with

So many enemies,

As well as the

Many varieties of mockingbirds,

That the sky has to offer.

But upon finding their way to a nearby bank,

Buoyant complacency silently boards the ships,

In the form of drowsy sea-sickness

Formulates a barbarous mutiny,

Spreading from one snoring mouth to another,

And capsizes the captain.

Who weeps over his not-yet-buried treasure

Then checks the first mate.

And the empty vessels become slaves to the howling wind,

At the very beck and call of the breeze.

Now slowly crawling towards the event horizon,

Empty except for seashells,

Empty except for excerpts,

Anticipating its diluted conclusion,

Ready for it’s layover among  so many other cascading droplets,

All carrying briefcases,

All set to attend the same seminar.

That is the slight waterfall,

That is the slight displacement,

From one ocean to another.

One planet to another.

One pane of glass,

To another.