Here where the sun filters through white pine and oak,
eagles coast boat plumes, cabins with wood piles
and docks line shores littered with daisies and wild grasses,
the water a slow ripple this morning. A dog lies on its back
in the shade, nose sifting scent of squirrel and dirt and bird.
The breeze whispers a lazy secret to the trees. A woman sits
in a swing, a book resting on her knees, hands tapping
their own cadence, the pulse of the day vibrating
to the whine of mosquitoes, the hollow throb of a boat
rocking against a dock. She knows that her time here is small,
that she must return to work and worries, but not now,
not while loons croon their sorrows, their lonely love song.
Let the coming waves tremble the rocks, let the blue heron curl
his long neck; the question can wait to be answered.