Swaying and reaching for something just out of reach,
the mostly‐brown algae follows the push
of the man‐made woosh of water spilling through a silver tunnel,
piloted into this pond from a larger lake. It all ends here.
Someone has left a pop can on the grass, and its sparkle
echoes the muddy glint of this sun, this water.
The nearby grass is white and brown from being known.
A pair of geese drink their fill, riding the water
in the kind of silence shared by old couples
eating out of styrofoam on a shopping mall evening.
The incoming water yawns more splashes.
Some algae blobs to the surface, green purple brown.
Elsewhere up the squeezed gronk of some bird
sounds rhythmically. I wonder if anyone will come
pick up the can, if anyone needs to know about this.
There is an apartment complex a quarter mile away
and cars screech reminders of what’s become home,
the new whir of our surroundings.
There are several cracks on the pathway home,
a silence like the world got emptied. The sun
was supposed to set an hour ago, but it’s still plastered up there,
the bruised red of clearance price tags. Still,
light makes a good dome for us to wish against.
Franklin K.R. Cline