The broth inches toward a boil.
Tendrils of liquid fat swirl around,
Sharks in a whirlpooling frenzy.
Circling, Diving, Reappearing.

A watched pot never boils.
But I don’t care if it roils.
I’m watching the motion.
Watching the self-organization.
Its never-ending reinvention.

But through its toil it will boil.
The hypnotizing churn will give way.
Mounded, rounded bubbling will
Begin its own interpretation.

The tendrils of liquid fat have dissolved.
They have become one with the roil.
I turn the burner off.
I choose to go back to the churn.