There’s No Place Like
Rain claimed the day, and I crept to the lake,
where typewriter patter fizzed the open water,
and giant silver drops bloomed under outflung trees.
The ducks were shy, and veered away;
the geese a regal flotilla, passing in silence.
Only the cormorant tucked and dove, fish-bird,
the surface zipping closed above him, unzipping
when he rose, his head sleek as a silk tie.
Four mallards drifted in the gray element,
orange bills stored beneath their wings, asleep
as I would be, if the lake would only bear me,
dry, featherless.
—Aimée Sands
SHARKPACK Poetry Review 