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