Water Tresses

The neighbour’s creek runs through a culvert under the road and trickles into a shallow pool. Early one morning I sit down on the dew-damp earth. Pull out my camera. And wait.

The sun stretches higher.

Shoreline grasses are mirror-perfect on the water’s surface.

Water striders begin to emerge. Tentative, at first. Then bolder. Now, moving like tiny bumper cars. Their ripples run amok, scattering the reflections.

Strands of mermaid hair.

 

Jesus Bugs

Water striders. Pond skaters. Water skippers.

Their names suggest what they can, in fact, do:  walk on water.

Spindly, outstretched legs spread the weight, each foot forming a dimple in the liquid skin.

Surface tension in action.

It’s why feathers float.

And rocks don’t.