A Lake

 [a revised one from long ago]

A lake's a lovely dot

that should have ought

to have been if it weren't.

Lakeside, see the burnt

place inside stones:

campfire. The many zones

of any sort of lake

amaze: here fish wake,

there sleep. Shelves, shallows,

a glass surface where swallows,

evenings, select sweet bugs

to eat. Cool shade for slugs.

Shadows, where the muck

rules. A cove where a duck

feels safe and mutters.

Trees behave like shutters,

filtering light, allowing moss.

Humans can't help but toss

junk into lakes. I don't know why.

In the lake, see the sky.

Sit by the lake. My Lord, the sounds.

Even in small lakes life abounds,

from single-cell and bug to frog

to worms beneath a sunken log.

Fish jump, cruise, dive, and school.

Patient lakeside raccoons drool.

Kingfisher and eagle do espy,

and hawk with an awful eye

perceives a chipmunk by the lake.

(Back up that tree, for heaven's sake.

Made of snow or stream or spring,

a lovely, yes, a functional thing:

a blue acceptance, is a lake.

hans ostrom 2020