By Sean Tate
Standing at the edge of the lake,
You sink down, ankle deep, toes grasping. Black soil oozes, hugs, and holds—
a wet and chilled embrace.
Casting the first stone, it soars through the air; a sudden plop.
You watch as ripples spread and quiver, never to reach the shore,
never to soar as the bird soars on light feathered wings.
The smell before rain—petrichor.
A swift breeze stirs your hair…birdsong in the distance.
Struggling leaves cling to contorted branches, holding against season’s end, but failing.
Set loose! You watch a flurry of gold and amber swirling aimlessly while descending to
a new home far from on high.
Now grounded. Settling. Decaying…
Hulking clouds burst. Raindrops fall and splatter, thousands of tiny pin drops on the lake.
Your heavy woollen jumper begins to sag.
You slump back to the sound of an earthly squelch.
In this moment, surrounded by this earthen delight
all thoughts of returning home…
forgotten.