The sound of coots
scooting across the lake,
the vibrant heads of mallards
gliding past with their
plain little women,
the surprise of two avocets
taking flight as I approach,
provoking me to exclaim their name.
The man I pass each morning
leashing his dog named Spice,
wet from her bounding
play in the lake,
the way one side of his hat
is clipped up,
the clothes he seems to wear
each day,
the reddish hue to his face
which makes me worry
he has a problem with drink,
one small boat on
the last Wednesday
of the open season
for the lake.