Nov 2011
Cool crisp half moon
sends shimmering shaft across charcoal lake.
A thousand winking waves blindly greet light.
White water foul
pedal silently across giant dark pool--
webbed feet wandering in black depths,
where teeming life hides without seeking
and does not disturb my walk in night air.
No sounds are to be heard--I don't utter even a noble word.
Inside in my own black depths, feet from the surface also stir the stillness.
When light of day washes this dark peace aside,
I will wonder where it went to hide,
and if I have another night under crisp cool light,
watching waters and birds in rest from flight.
sends shimmering shaft across charcoal lake.
A thousand winking waves blindly greet light.
White water foul
pedal silently across giant dark pool--
webbed feet wandering in black depths,
where teeming life hides without seeking
and does not disturb my walk in night air.
No sounds are to be heard--I don't utter even a noble word.
Inside in my own black depths, feet from the surface also stir the stillness.
When light of day washes this dark peace aside,
I will wonder where it went to hide,
and if I have another night under crisp cool light,
watching waters and birds in rest from flight.
this is a poem I wrote several years ago--the subject is exactly what the title purports to be, a walk at a lake at night--the Wichitas were a Native American tribe who inhabited this part of the country--the lake, dug out of the plains only 100 years ago, was not here when the Wichitas roamed the prairies where I now live...
