I sit on the porch of another man’s cabin,
looking out at the lake cut into the run
of a long ditch draining a pair
of low sloping hills in between
broad fields of fresh-cut wheat.
At the steep end to the north,
shades of beige jag the edges of the water,
a jumble of big stones and rip rap
pushed up from the dredging
that formed the deepest ledges.
A thickly slatted wall of green
frames nearly every edge of the lake,
tall stakes of cattails frame the border
from grass to water,
defining the points and inlets
curving the seven acre spread
that blends reflections of textured pasture
and sky into the wind-ruffled surface.
Along the lower edges of the reeds,
a yellowish band marks the lower water level
after the heavy rains of May
finally eased their way into longer days.
A small clustering of the upper ends
of old gray trunks and branches
rises beside the crappie beds,
the last stand of timber that once spread wide shade
into the spill of the ditch
that now beds the bottom.
Ancient springs feed clear water
into this soothing presence
while a half moon hangs high in mid-afternoon
and a softening wind scruffs the surface of the lake
and eases beneath the roof of the porch.
I could sit here for days
and not waste a single moment.