Lake Superior in twelve words

It is fresh water in a great basin. Casually I always think it will be the same: Ah, there is the lake. The Lake, one thing. From great windows and our own shore I look on it day after day and even the slightest attention marks change instead, unending diversity, never seen patterns and wild mysteries. If I had a camera I would maybe take pictures to show you, but I don't have a camera, and I sometimes suspect pictures are the bloggers easy way out. Twelve words are worth a thousand pictures. So instead of pictures I have collected for you these phrases of what the playful and serious, mysterious waters of Lake Superior tell me, sometimes once, and sometimes often, all in twelve words.

We are all gathered here today, dark flocks of water, flying north.

We little circles within circles can briefly become the tips of waves.

A small god, with its finger, draws sweeping curves in the water.

I have decided to be a wave in the middle of calmness.

With never a hint of green before, suddenly 17 shades of it.

The waves moving east and the waves moving south are in harmony.

Between two pines the pale water disappears and pretends to be sky.

The slow wind has blown our waves an inch below the surface.

The endless dance of diamonds were never there when the clouds come.

Over and over these are the the long, slow waves of liquid pewter.

We cannot be distracted, we are water in a hurry, standing still.