Logical Creatures
Poem - by Renee Cronley
The peat black waters keep secrets from me—
the monstrous depths contain more water
than all the lakes in England and Wales combined.
788 feet shrouded in epic mystery,
but I dedicated my life to the scientific method—
I take mystery and tear it apart.
I’ve analyzed the water samples—
lots of eels, but no reptiles.
I’ve taken sonar-equipped boats
to sweep the loch with curtains of sound;
each target could be explained save one.
I’ve seen the Pictish standing stone—
the beast with the elongated beak, flippers, and curled tail;
the water-horse offering children rides
as their hands stick to its back
to be dragged to their watery graves…
their livers washing ashore the following day.
So as I hug the shoreline of loch ness
and stand at the cradle of fact and fiction,
I stare into the murky waters
daring an answer to surface.
Because there’s a small part of me
that doesn’t want science to kill the legend—
and challenge the known optical illusions
of boat wakes, wind slicks, and floating logs
and fall comfortably into the communal psyche
carved by etiological oral traditions.
My train of thought agitates the waters
and humps protrude from its surface.
For one suspended moment,
logic blurs around the edges
and lineal fingers reach out to touch its back;
clinging to the creature’s mythical status—
sinking below the inky waves
with a collective memory.