following the rim of the lake
where the slash meets the water
bare to the scrub and moving slowly over
a mess of roots and dry dead wood
the lake black beside me
and perfect like a healthy complection
the canoe on the lake like a magnet
in the distance a stone’s throw
a spit and a holler not much
of an echo though it seemed
that there wouldn't be
since there was nothing but the bowl
in the mountain and the lake and the sky