I’m learning the Lake’s moods:

the polka dot calm–

blobbed reflections

(almost cartoonish)

riding gentle undulations;

bolder, half-sun days,

each circular wave

glowing green through the top

(rather like jello);

the desolate day

when everything went slate

(but lonely isn’t always);

the winter and watching

waves eat snowpack,

a miniature time-lapse

of canyons and wind.

Walking back with my brother,

the wind drove grains

across the sand

“like flees hopping.”

Too gross a metaphor,

he said.

“Poppy seeds, then.”

But poppy seeds don’t jump.

 

And Miss Ella conquered

the high dune mountain,

and Kat played her guitar

when the orange sun sank

to ride the backs of waves.

It was the most spectacular setting.

All down the beach

each human faced west:

the little girl and her mother,

the three ladies in matching jumpers,

the fancy-camera-ed couple–

everyone watched

the pink-purple glory

behind Chicago’s violet silhouette.

When the sun slipped at last,

it seemed we should applaud–

should stamp and cheer.

But we turned quietly,

each to her own home,

sated with sand and wind

and wonder.