A pond of stars

Sometimes the woman in all white threads would wander to the pond and drink of the water in all its stillness, a swan always present beneath the snow-white clouds, as the forests burned, an on-goining event throughout the seasons. Red and white, the color of beauty and passion, the color of tongue on flesh. The silver rain fell - beacuse it contained both the elements zinc and cobalt it had the essence of silver - and in doing so the pond became a mirror from which emerged a sky, several flocks of birds, and the orange-colored balloon. In the balloon rode the wolf, and a wolf is a horse when it is given in to the imagination. From the balloon emerged, quite like bubbles, several other smaller balloons, which, un-manned, arranged themselves like stars in the sky from far away. Of course, the woman remarked about this disorderly although beautiful process of turning day into night as feeble occupation. But these were not her words, rather someone else's. She was merely a statue holding a flower and wearing a wreath signalling to sky. A little breeze whistled around. A leaf perhaps, but nothing else. And then the evening was still again, blue as if housed inside a giant aquarium.