The ground here is rough, biting
at the bare foot. It slopes down
rushing towards the shore. Sun,
brightest light shimmering off the waves,
emerges from the lake itself. An empty
dock, barren of joy, struggles
to maintain its composure
and an aluminum hull, showing its age,
wanes with every wave. Wind:
cattails bend in unison, break
for the weight of a midday wren.
The ground here is rough,
but I don’t mind.