Thomas R. Smith




August Night on Mallard Island

Near midnight. In the northeast
what look to be faint folds of aurora.
Far across the lake, lightning without
thunder illuminates small sectors
of horizon, remote, contained, unable
to touch us like some distant battle.

We are safe on our dark patch of rocky
shore, watching Perseus rise over
the water, produce trickster-like from
under his cloak the tiny fireballs
he lobs across the sky. The waning moon
not yet up, star field abundant and deep.

I sweep the shallows with my flashlight’s beam.
Pale crayfish come out to feed by night,
hide by day from the gulls’ beaks. At our
approach, they scuttle back into watery
shadows. Like them, we lift our eyes
to brightness on the edge of immensity.