Lakes

Nothing is as Still as a Lake

Nothing is as still as a lake,

fog poking the stark green pine trees

around the edges of the water and whispering

up the great nobs of mountains

like a lithe gray cat.

Our dock creaks as little waves,

driven by the old loose breeze,

splash themselves up the side. Amber

lights from the houses across the lake

spill dimly out of the windows.

This could be the last time I ever

see this. I could take the outboard out,

listen to the dull crow of the engine

taking me around our point of land

and out away from home.