The Lake

Soft whispers
Quietly ripple,
Slight splashes
Lap the shore.

Starry eyed water bugs
Skim z-like
In fits of speed-stop,
Long-legged and weightless,
Unwet.

Grass blades green in summer fresh
Tickle the musty lake air,
Weaving its way over sand and stone,
Through sun-bent leaves,
Splattered all over the wood,
Under darkening gray skies.

And I sit.
Stunned in thought of the struggling
Fish and frog and snake and bug,
Living out their lives
By this shimmering sea.

James K. Richardson