The Cliche of Gin
The water, most days, in most of the places I love being is gin clear.
It is as clear as water, but you just can’t say that, right? It’s like you aren’t even trying.
It is as clear as stale 7-Up.
It is as clear as simple arithmetic.
It is as clear as a bag of IV solution
which is usually saline, which makes sense.
It is as clear as the nose on my face.
It is at clear as the rumbling, booming Dolby hi-def deafening audio at the movie theatre.
It is as clear as a clear day.
It is as clear as a dive in the box.
It is clear as clear.
That’s how the water is in the places I love on a good day when the wind isn’t up too much and there’s no churn from a cold front.
It is only the part in the middle that is clear.
The surface has ripples and currents and is seldom still.
The bottom is a jumble of refracted light and swaying grasses which confuse and trick the eye.
But the medium in the middle, the domain of the fish, it is clear as gin.
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