After a good long swim in churning clarity,
At six in the afternoon, one sail on the lake
And not another body on the pebbled shore.
The sound of lake surf, softer, less regular
Than breakers from an ocean, quicker too,
More like the fluttery breathing of an infant
On the chest. One sweeper cottonwood
Downed in the waves by a recent storm
Still poking up a bouquet of living green,
Like any other body, determined to go on
Respiring as long as it can. Only the mind
Ever despairs or draws its own conclusions.
A few brightly colored kayaks, a beach chair
Left behind with no one in it anymore. Hold it
All to your bare chest and listen to that breath.
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