The fog rolls in,
as mallards swim,
drip, drip drip,
condensing fog off the house.

Quack, quack, quack,
in the distance,
echoing again,
across the lake.

Jet skis and boats,
hang lifeless,
in the winter,
December 23rd.

American flag,
sag limp and lifeless,
on the boat house,
as the squirrel climbs the oak.

An occasional leaf,
pirouettes from on high,
spinning and spinning,
to the brown grass below.

The taste of forty creek,
and seven up
on ice, with lime
in my yellow plastic cup.

Bbq smoke smell,
as brisket cooks,
waiting for family
to arrive.