It wakes up in the sky somewhere, stretching and shaking off a sleepy daze. Slowly moving, awakening to the sensations of other air currents, it dives into the river of wind and air swirling around. It's tossed and carried along like a plastic bag on a windy day. Then, in the distance, it spies something marvelous: a lake, so pristine, glimmering faintly in the early morning light, so inviting. It wants to, it could; no, it must!
It shoots towards the water's surface, pulled towards the delicious sight by some unseen force.
It pauses for a moment, hovering just above the water. Stretching out finger-like wisps of itself, it barely brushes the stagnant skin. The water moves for the fragile fingers, ebbing away and apart, giving them room, creating ripples. Ripples. It gasps at the wonder unfolding and folding in front of it. The little waves continue, rippling and growing wider and wider, farther and farther.
There's no hesitation now. It reaches across the entire lake and splashes like a child, frolicking on the surface until the whole body of water is covered in delicate ripples. It chases them and turns them this way and that. It breathes, blowing on the water, watching it move, feeling it yield beneath it. Pure ecstasy.
When I dip my oar in the water, pulling the water toward me, pushing it away, it watches. It rushes past me, whispering,
More, more, more ripples.
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