One boat floated, outboard idling in the sun
Across the big shallow puddle, orthogonal
To the vector I'd taken when I swam across
That bathtub-tepid, early-October water
Two-plus winters ago, though none of those
Jet skis I dodged then would have bothered
My trajectory were I to try it again today.
Today was March, mild for fishing, cold
For splashing around, although I was longing
And half-tempted to make the attempt,
Remembering the clambering in and out
Of the soupy green mud and grasses
As moderately disgusting but the middle
As reasonably clean and clear. That was
Then, what everything becomes by coming
Into being at all, then. Now, I could see
The migrating waterbirds, herons or cranes,
Remaining out in that clear area, a cloud
To themselves, even though I was sure
They must also sometimes stalk the shore.
Back when body was swimming out there
And, head down, listening underwater for
The deadly thrum of the pleasure engines,
Daughter had stayed playing by that shore
And caught, as she often does, a frog. So,
There must be something in this reservoir
For those waterbirds, but for today they had
Stayed where I would have stayed if I could,
Where I would have gone this day if I could,
Far out in the middle, hard to identify, hard
To scare, drifting calmly, at ease in the clear.
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