Sayram Lake

This is not the seaside, yet it has a bluer purity than the sea. Please strip away all my descriptive clothes and let you fall directly into that shade of blue. The clouds are freshly wrung cotton hanging above the mirror-like surface practicing drifting. The wind pushes the folds of light westward, pine needles on the mountain are tuning their strings, the herder’s horse hooves strike the stones, shattering into stars that fall into the cooking smoke. Wildflowers never care about composition rules, splashing color all over the hillside. The swan’s curved neck gently bends, breaking all unnecessary rhetoric. You suddenly become a mute poet, take out your phone and silently put it down again. It turns out some blues can bite, leaving invisible teeth marks on the chest.