Lake Nicaragua NICARAGUA

I watched a woman wash laundry in the shore break of lake nicaragua. she had three steel truck rimms stacked up on top of each other, to make a table in the short marsh grass, by the volcanic tumblers ten feet from the beach. a pig tied to three more rims ate a kleenex caught in the fresh water waves that were breaking fast and small. the island of ometepe sends them packing, fresh water ripples desperately running to escape the mysterious gases of the sisters conception and maderas. without the salt the crashing is harmless without the ocean behind it this invisible horizon has no danger. the waves sound tinny and frightened. but the breeze is a great benefit, and the pig and the washer take it for granted. a brown horse grazes by the white painted trunks of the mangrove bush to my left, I am quiet watching the birds, and a man in a mud brick house, a white goose begs for food, tree trunk posts sewn with barbed wire, bags of rice, and whitecaps. the man goes back into the house and gets an orange plastic bucket that he pours the bags contents into, chickens come, its morning, he rolls down the sides of the bag, like the woman does her trowsers in the water, into round cuffs. crows sit on pigs backs, the goose is talking to the man in a familiar tone. this place feels rich and temporary, even for the people who have never left. the light and the volcanoes are the same color, a soft white blue. its only the water of the lake that is protesting, little debates gesticulating from the dormant sisters, san juan del sur, on the pacific, san juan del norte on the carribean, and this water has no where to go.