I am half-woman, half-bird. I am winged Leucosia, stroking with both oars as I sing of the water. I am the siren, wielding my Leica and weaving images on nature's loom. My songs tell stories of water coursing within each of us. Softly, I feather my oars, slide into stillness, and become one with the fog.
Crooning my siren song, I call to you.
My trlll is peaceful. Leucosia lures you only so you know that all is well. Not like those old time wahines Scylla and Charybdis. No, my morning soprano floats gently. My flowing hair floats, like the wavy clouds that drift above the creek now, as if they are pleased with my melodies and delighted, in the way of clouds, to be aloft at this moment in the pre-dawn of the Autumnal Equinox.
I sing softly. I am a sole siren in this small boat. My powerful breasts are full of life and I lean back and stroke the oars. I sing in rhythm, with two oars as my wings. I am woman, wo-man, wo-man. Woman-singing, singing bird.
Wings. I am avian, dreaming that I spread both wings and fly up from the rowboat, letting go the oars to flap through fog and land, moist, in the ancient pine. There, I belch a note out from my beak, as a belly-full of minnows fills me and shows my strike to be fast and sure. Now a fishy tang tinges my notes, and I am singing off-key like the call of a startled night heron. My verse sings of the tannin-colored water. My refrain echoes the touch of pink now painting the clouds that seemed completely still, until you look away and look back, and feel that they've moved without needing you at all. My third verse touches dew drops of spider webs that drape over the tall grass. My last verse tickles the fur on the otter's back.
The water is still now, finally, only marked by oar-lifted bubbles that, keeping time, pop behind in the wake of my woman-bird passing. I am the siren. I have sung. Moments pass. Behind the clouds, the sky offers a yellow fringe onto the clouds. All is silent just as the sun rays enlighten the living infinite.