It is late afternoon on the pond.
Evening is already unfolding
its gray negligee into the far
eastern sky. Soon the lily pads
will glisten with the orange
and pinks that spill each time
the sun eases its way to its knees.
It’s always the same. First come
the churning hoards of sky gnats
and dragonflies skimming their way
above the waves. They will pirouette
away their lives while thin-hipped
perch and carnivorous carp begin
their old habit of jumping through
hoops for their supper. This dance
will continue until darkness calls
the raccoons and coyote out to sniff
for turtle eggs, foolish young possums
and brooding water fowl grown drowsy
on their nests in the summer night.
Once the moon makes its way through
the trees and licks the pond in silver
ripples and long floods of light, I’ll
walk the shore—forgetting your name.
Originally Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 2.
