Water. Stillness, broken by motion. Moonlight on rippling scales, dreamlike in the middle hours of the night. Hair hangs heavy, shining pale. One look was too much; when Rose from the River looks away and closes her eyes, all she finds hidden underneath them is silver light and entwining motions. Either way, she is trapped.

So where is the harm in watching?

If she is to see either way, let her see with her eyes open, free of all desire but to witness. She empties herself and stands hollow by the riverside, and allows black and silver to fill her with rippling motion.

And then, so filled, her clothing scatters on the riverbank, strewn about her mendicant’s pack. Rose strikes the water and sinks, heavy, to the bottom. The water is deeper than it looks. Down there, she glitters, gills fluttering feather-soft, the necessary counter-balance to Scales playing upon the surface.

Ah, perhaps this was the harm in watching.

Does Scales of Meaning descend to speak through twisting coil-whorls and sword-dance underneath the water, or does she withdraw to the bank until Rose from the River rediscovers buoyancy?

[A String, offered.]