A pebble ripples the lake, disturbs its determined smoothness. Long after the small stone sinks into the anonymous mud, the lake shudders, convulsing upon itself. Which is more beautiful? The placid surface or the water that wavers, transforming the image of a woman who leans over the edge to watch the water stretch then settle her features. Still as the air she holds. If a breeze whispers its way across the water, it busies itself away from her, leaving the fall of hair, the drape of her clothing in one smooth meld. She remembers yearning for wind, wind to scrape dry her cheeks when the man with the fine guitar plucked at her heart. But as her tears dried so did her heart. The wind eroded her like a poorly-tilled field and she learned to wish for rain and speak of crops, their yield separating the good years from the bad. She fears for the winter wheat, tempted by unseasonable sun to appear too soon. No human act can save it. Still, she allows herself this indulgence, makes pilgrimage to the lake, man-made, shallow, but water enough to imagine another geography, another kind of strife. She splashes her face and waits for wind and water to meet at her lips. She has grafted herself to this land where the cycle turns on the harvest, not death. A last look at the water lifts her spirit, reassures her that she shares the ache of return with earth and weather. Her breath quickens and she sings, her voice a counterpoint to the regularity of rise and fall, the lone melodic line of plainsong, a chant to celebrate the continuous ritual that enters her words that survives without her that she sings. Reprinted with permission from Water Witching Copyright © 1984 by Kathleene West Copper canyon

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