The lake

Rhythmic lapping little tide,
always moving, swelling,
ebbing green and living;

bluegill dart in shady grottos through
the tangled branches of a fallen tree,
waterlogged and sinking slowly in the

soft mud of the sandy bottom–
even as painted turtles bubble up
to rest on branches still poking above

the surface. The water glides around
such interruptions, satisfied to hide
its secrets in its cold, deep-dark-under places where

giant catfish sleep while, above,
the morning mist fades and it
glimmers bright and yellow in the

summer sun, a rippling mirror for the
pines and oaks who draw their life
from its cool shores. Their still silence is

broken by the distant calls of geese
and mallards, kingfishers and bullfrogs,
and the random clunk of two old friends

quietly fishing in an old metal rowboat.
The lake is a world to itself, a
mystery of stillness and movement,

a home for fresh, deep peace.

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