But this is a lie.
Like this panorama of the lake.
What you can't see is what makes the lake the lake -- the birds and bugs, fish and sand grains, lichen and moss, rocks and Odonate nymphs gorging themselves along the lake bed, . . . .
It's wise to make no assumptions about the long view (especially the one you might live); they're likely to be inadequate or inaccurate.
This Is a Photograph of Me
by Margaret Atwood
It was taken some time ago.
At first it seems to be
a smeared
print: blurred lines and grey flecks
blended with the paper;
then, as you scan
it, you see in the left-hand corner
a thing that is like a branch: part of a tree
(balsam or spruce) emerging
and, to the right, halfway up
what ought to be a gentle
slope, a small frame house.
In the background there is a lake,
and beyond that, some low hills.
(The photograph was taken
the day after I drowned.
I am in the lake, in the center
of the picture, just under the surface.
It is difficult to say where
precisely, or to say
how large or small I am:
the effect of water
on light is a distortion
but if you look long enough,
eventually
you will be able to see me.)
