Things are coming to life, not dying.  Small, new trees growing out of large, old dead ones.  The water comes up to the bending, graceful limbs of the trees.  Their elegant fingers trail through the waves.  They seem so old, and so bent.  Bent with age, bent with gravity, bent and bowed by time.  Time bends and breaks, grows and renews.  But it seems paused here now.

Bent with age, bent with gravity, bending to the ground, sweeping reaches.  A loon dives.  I swear it was a mammal.  The loon is a large bird, a curious bird.  I come closer and further, and closer still.  The air is filled with the relaxing noise of lapsing tide of lapsing time.

There is a maypole, wrapped in flesh.  The water is eating and the island is dying.  OH!  It’s from my dream again.  This is where the tombstones changed to crosses changed to a maypole.  The wind and waters dance around it.  The murk is in stasis holding love, while the wind pushes the littlewater over quickly, in a rush to catch the shore before it stands back up.