my dear friend,
it winds along the reservoir,
first straying through quiet trees
and shiny, new house developments.
then a window opens, limbs and leaves
draw back, and the asphalt tries to smooth
the jagged edge of the shore.
sometimes the lake is made of ebony
glimmering with gold and silver in liquid
lines—memories of day at night.
then morning paints itself upon the waters,
the sun scattering diamonds with a generous
hand across the shivering, fallen sky.
there's magic on the lake road,
which begs us slow and turn
to the osprey who drifts
above the gathered waters,
to the herons posed like
statues along the shore,
to the wild ducks bobbing
in loose conversations wherever
the current will draw them.
I linger on the lake road, even
though I'm almost home.
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