A poem.

Quiet as August, I lounge –
sun, dock, stream, the breathing
skies conspire to fill, to lull.
Pollen swirls, reeds bump, click.
Tiny fish bring hollow mouths up
bubble the surface, inspect dust.
Thin green weeds tell the current
– silent, they quiver, bend, weave.
All the canoes are napping, camps
abandoned, stars invisible gleaming
when a black fisher cat slinks in
ploshing, then pausing, alert.
Mary Buchinger

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