Drought drains the lake like a tapped keg,
reveals the rusted bicycle frame, a pair of soleless
Nikes, an hypocrisy of spent shotgun shells littered
in the weepy muck. A policeman fishes out
someone’s right thumb with an oversized net.
From their watchtowers, the fish crows are
a jangle of small black keys, flush with knowledge,
happy to unlock the lake’s mysteries for a trade
in seed, breadcrumbs, shiny trinkets if only
we’d grow wings. I tried that once. Flying.
Soared right off the edge of life until I tired
of my own weightlessness, became friends again
with grounded things. The lake stuns with its ability
to be empty of itself and still captivate, exposed
banks like a lover’s curved hip she’s finally deemed
you worthy of gazing upon. I’ve given up wanting
to be full, take cues now from the wildlife,
everything in flawless symbiosis—osprey keeping
watch from a tall pine, dark mud making record
of every boot-print, rain like a best friend
who covers the lake back up, no questions asked,
then disappears without needing thanks.