She conducts silent orchestras under that diluted ripple-pool gaze. Silent symphonies of this word and that word. Until those words dissolve. They will dissolve, in that burning ethereal haze of the day. And the deep water is all that’s left to her. In her bambi-legged condition. In the blinking light. The quiet is good. The loud better. They talk to her, the shadows and the dazzling bokeh. They whisper entrancing enticements in her reticent ear. She is reluctant to their meaning, the words are there to trip her up again. She looks to the water. Calm, cool and gently ready to explode in torrents. There are words to explain. There are the right words. But she knows only of the other sensual senses. The taste of them. The scent of them. The feel of them. Calm and cool like the never-ending pool. A raging fervour hidden just underneath. Why constrain it with words. Just taste and smell and feel. Always feel.
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