Out on the water, three women in red lifejackets
Floated in a rowboat with their fishing poles,
But nothing but the wind was biting today.
The frogs and the tadpoles were in hiding,
As were, presumably, the lethargic snakes.
Clouds concealed the higher mountains,
Leaving the scene lusher, greener, not so stony,
Which was mildly ironic, given the chilly reason.
Another moody midsummer in the Kootenays.
All that moved in the grass by the pond
Was the grass itself, a girl dancing for herself,
Narrating fables and twirling sticks as she did, and
A cluster of wildflowers that should not be named,
Since the names would evoke too much for some
And nothing much for others, and also
Since none of the names for them belonged to them
Anyway, not even the word wildflowers, which was
Already perhaps too much, taking us too far
Away from the pond to the stock footage in our heads.
The voices of the cheerfully unsuccessful
Women fishing floated through what moved as they did.
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