Sitting on a bench

notebook in hand.

High pitched and fast talking kids

birdlike, chatter all around the lake.

Human chickadees.

In the water they churn like piranhas.

Their older versions move slowly like herons

in the woods and have calm sounds

and gentle ripples when they swim.

And I’m lost in my head

at Lost Lake because

I’m supposed to be home

writing about a location

for the poetry marathon.