The water makes waves on every inch of itself vibrating, turning white at the top, all headed toward the edge

where no self is and a stodgy oak with four thick main trunks, snow pressed into its tenderest crooks

A man with a yellow raincoat with an orange hood–what’s he up to, what aquatic business I don’t understand

If I were a bat and this morning was night, I’d fly over the lake calling your name

and if you didn’t answer, I’d fly high at first then lower later at night, then right before I’d disappear

I’d find my own reflection in the lake, shiny and black like obsidian with wings