Poem: Low Water Mark

Steve Piragis went out paddling into the early evening yesterday. His picture reflected some of the most subtle afternoon light we've seen so far this year.  It is hard to believe that November is already upon us.  This poem came to mind.  Enjoy.

Low Water Mark

Rising from dark water;

spires climb,

the green trees of years

gone by.  Now like 

bannerless flag posts

rooted in the wetland soil.

Sentinels of the lake

silent, watching.

Reaching through gray.

blue and pink toward

the retreating sun.

Arms entreating dead

grasses to join in the dance.

Canoe bow splits

reflection’s perfection.

Abandoned wood duck

house rocking slowly

to the rhythm of the 

dead wind.

Redwing blackbird

calls from the cattails.

Beaver tail slaps to 

the North.  Pileated beak

strikes home and keeps

the beat, hidden in the 

dark, jagged line of pines.

The colors deepen.  No

one is home, or,

are they?  Paddle pushes

us into the night.

© Timothy James Stouffer, 11/04/2015

All Rights Reserved