She bobs in the water pale cork, pale-haired lily pad with tendrils in the deep cold dark. (Stones in her pockets, they said later, a Virginia Woolf rip-off.) I see her from my bay window. She gleams as she floats; she startles the ducks. I wait for the joggers to find her, bouncing along asphalt until they trip on the light slanting off her. It's early, though. The sky is still bleary-eyed and bloodshot. Red sky dances along the water.