The Watchers

You know this story. 
You have read it many times in other places, other ways.
There is a lake and people that keep still and watch to see it move, and then to wait, 
go back and see it start again somewhere else, familiar, yet strange, but they are 
content, the watchers.
And before that, once a river that grew before it is a wonder, like you.
Stretching wide, no rush, waters kissing shores and rocks that go nowhere either, 
the water stays, but again like you it is not at rest, not yet.
At times it moves things that need to move, people too, faster on the top, a job to do.
The ones that come to watch and stare, cottagers they call them, they understand, but 
what they understand, they are not sure.
Some stay, some go but never leave, like rocks, and trees, and fish, and birds, and rain, 
and sand, the tiny purple berry too, the queen who rules her kingdom,
everywhere you look.
The wind will up and set the water dancing, pull light from day and hold it down at night,
to keep it safe inside dark spaces, simmering, to make it ready, for the 'morrow.
Troubles roam around the edge but melt away, the glass, absorbs it all, it understands.
This back and forth of remembering, the watchers, they know enough to just be still,
to stare but not to work, or think, or else to miss the wonder, the oneness of it all.