View from Hidden Lake

The object looms before me, dressed
in black and rust. Its action is delayed.
 
Birds ring in, fledglings born in the grass. Everywhere—
the voice of river rock. First, a note—then a cacophony.
 
A hawk calls and the spring air rattles. A shadow
darts across the water.
 
I can hear a plane leaving. There is always
a plane, or a car crossing.
  
Here, boats—big boats, little boats, rafts,
catamarans, Hobie Cats, skips, canoes, kayaks.
 
They tug at my desire—what I long for, where I
lean, how the egret sails white above white.
 
Barking drifts from the far shore of cabins,
chimneys, and front door knockers.
 
Should I strive back up the hill or swirl
into the deep? Green is the main thrust.
 
A truck pulls the wind across the water and
the cormorants chuck it back. I can still smell
 
the vanquished fire digging a hole in the lake.
The blue has to end somewhere.
 
First there is an object—table—then
an action—branches. The table branches out.
 
In the meantime, the days lengthen. I love spring. 
I love summer and cold water.
 
An old radio gig clips the blue sky—Chicken
in a basket, onion rings, and a chocolate malt.
 
Outstretched, the blue reflecting, and below,
the black, burned hearts.