Looking down, I can’t tell
If the movement on the water is rain
Or the birthing of mosquitos.
It is the time of year for both.
The lanterns lighting the rim of the dirty lake
Only serve to create confusion,
Bright dots on a furiously rippling film
As though the water were absorbing the heavy bass of the city.
A monstrous carp, leftover from the Kitchen God ceremony
Breaks the shuddering surface, striking at some larger floating chunk,
Sending thick ripples out to smack against the shore,
Then just as fast is back into the green depths
Letting the water return to its constant rustling
And leaving me to wonder
If I find it all beautiful or horrifying
And whether I should open my window to confirm my suspicions
Or be grateful to watch behind glass.