The dark man of the lake

The lake shimmers in the distance ,its brown sands sprouting a rain-less herd of sheep. Sheep root into its skin  , their tongues touching the insides of its dry mouth.There is a shimmer of water in the distance touched by a sun low in the sky. Near the bread-knife of the water streak lies a white van like a loaf of bread, with painted figures of humans crawling  around it.The humans are ants going about their no particular business.The van is presiding their destinies as their ant-nest.

You cannot go there, says the cop in a police jeep.The camera cries.It recoils in protest against the policeman’s refusal. No lake pictures, no  horizons heaving.

The lake is now  a dark old man tending his sheep. His eyes look at the camera’s eye and there is instant recognition. His sheep is on way to their home.They are  tiny smudges of black and brown paint on the canvas. The old man is a portrait framed in his sky. His ebony skin is a dark silhouette against an indifferent sky.He is indifferent from me, a mere object in a dark  corner of my camera. So close to my rear view mirror. When I capture his black body on my visible sky I capture myself as well. In the rear-view mirror objects look closer than they are.  He is no different to me.  We are of the same space .

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