Below, the water is a sky so blue the canoe’s red might be a leaf unmoored from the sumac, buoyed by the pure float of cumulus.
Above, the same exuberance of white and blue, but without the scarlet gash of her body, empty as an autumn pod, and the dock some poet has lashed it to.
Across the lake, the dark brush and trees rise from their reflections, grounded both to the hidden earth and to radiant ideas of themselves, almost perfectly true.