There is more algae on the lakethan last spring, the grounds
lacking care. A crane
wades in shallow water. He becomes
a straight edge for drawing
that line between sun and shade.
The light is stark
speck on leaf or skin,
the hairline rust
on our Hibachi grill.
Under the pines, the wind blowssweeping flimsy things back
into the shadows.
We hold hands and leave certain wordsout of the scene. Like the talc-white bird
we want to mark a boundary
without crossing over.