Bryant Pond

Wind ripples the glassy lake and sends
Lily pads rising and falling
A dead tree trunk lies immobile
In its permanent resting place
Once-crisp leaves moldering in the muck

A lone frog echoes its own call out
Across the silence from the other side
Where dark woods lead to abandoned camps
Their skeletal docks empty
Plastic kayaks tied up tight against the porches
Rafts stacked on shore for the long winter
The houses sit, unmoving
Water and trees constantly in motion
Tuneless songs riding out the seasons

A forgotten stone picnic table sits
Under a tall evergreen at
The empty boat launch on Rowe Hill Rd.
In my car, looking at the pond,
I wonder if I will miss this place
Its unforgiving solitude and
Beautiful, sweet air.