Patrolling, two green darners stitch the air.
I shouldn’t be here, but he loved this dock:
as blackbirds trill, a water strider drifts
beneath, then scrabbles toward coins of light
let slip by willows. Bubbles flute up in threes;
I peer but cannot pierce the glassy tint.
A turtle, perhaps, feasting on what’s fallen.
Again the strider basks, pushed by the current—
Dad warned me about those, how tidal jets
have swept strong swimmers deep, like when I turned
our fish-tank pump on golden shiners mouthing
at the schedule feeder, Drop a nugget!
Come 6 p.m., some other current ruffles
my phone: Work. I remain. The sky goes dark.