High Water
May 8 2008


It was late, when the ice went out,
and now the lake is full
higher than I’ve ever seen it.
The narrow beach is gone,
familiar landmarks swamped,
and tree trunks stick-up
like flooded fence-posts.
The high-water mark
that must last out the season;
melt-water stored-up
like a great waddling bear,
gorged for its long deprived sleep.

A mild chop
eats away at soft unaccustomed earth
— the shore, higher than ever before,
and a big blow, even worse.
Too soon for boats;
so cold, you’d gasp quick useless breaths
frantically gulping air,
and muscles would seize-up, flash-frozen,
and wet heavy clothes
drag you under.

So I stand well back, watching;
the lake brown with run-off,
a thin skim of ice
pushed by wind to the edge,
and geese
honking like irritable old men
heading north again.
They remind me of fall
going south,
when it was a long walk to water
over dried-up mud,
and I worried I’d end up land-locked
if there was one more summer of drought.

Because these small lakes are like weather
— a biblical flood today,
and in a month
I’m praying for rain.