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