A Pond Change
The porto-potties are gone
so I can smell decaying leaves
and an old pick up truck
just turned off
near where the lame fisher
casts his line
Pond’s so low, beavers have left town
the remains of their lodge,
a circle of pointy sticks: barbaric ruin
Stumps they’ve left now pitted by woodpeckers,
bearing new blue signs warning “wildlife
management, keep out.”
It thanks me for my cooperation, but I'm not sure:
Perhaps I am both wild and unmanageable,
here, where weeks ago, children learned to swim or drown
Grey heron searches steadily.
I want to be that patient.
“I’m sure you are,” the lady says kindly
to her dog,
no, to the device in her face
carrying dialogue into quiet
and me with my notebook’s silent chatter.
I think this is wilderness
though I am but a three minute stroll
from the door I have lived behind for years.
A pond change
Boys go by
hitting rocks with sticks.
Someone knows why.