In the dunes, the morning of the equinox: a snail, a wet pine stump, a plover. The sunlight
changes. Long blades of grass shine like mirrors. Waves throb. The sun appears, warms
the skin on my forearms and all blades of grass. Waves roll, hidden behind tall dunes.
Waves and plovers together partake in wind and silence. A snail creates a path alone,
through grass, hidden. A wave compresses wind and ocean. Sunlight shifts, shifts again.
Shadows fall in response to the shifts, like a thin rain of darkness on the grass. Clouds
compress, pass, dissolve. The snail does not change their course. The grass undulates, the
pine tree listens. The air, low above the grass, fills up with water. The snail moves in
rhythm with the grass. The pine stump, in the future, will disappear into a wave. The snail
accepts me as a disciple. Sun rays spring up from the mud. Both my body and the dead
tree absorb the rain. Thousands of long sand stems create yellow grass and green silence.
Undulations in light and water. The hidden snail offers me their protection as I have no
shell. Blades of grass open. Wait. Grow. Grow from the middle. Breathe from all sides.
Breathe air, water, and all the colors. Imprint wind, clouds. Absorb mossy rain. Breathe
in sunlight and lengthening shadows.
Lucie Bonvalet is a writer, a visual artist and a teacher. Her writing (prose & poetry) can be found in Catapult, Puerto del Sol, 3AM, Phantom Drift Limited, Michigan Quarterly Review, Fugue, and elsewhere. Her drawings and paintings can be found in Old Pal magazine and on instagram. She received an MFA in Creative Writing from Portland State University in May 2021. Originally from the Dordogne, in the Southwest of France, she lives in Portland, Oregon.
Lost Balloon 