Pine shadows stripe the blacktop,
vine maples spill gold on the road,
willows dance orange tangos in the breeze
as we drive to the lake in late October.
 
Our voices skim across whitecaps, disappear.
Squirrels chatter, dig pine nuts out of cones.
Jays demand sandwich scraps
the year is too old to provide.
 
On the far shore a loon pulls down a rain cloud.
We hear the slap of rising waves on the shore.
Lightning slashes through steamy black wool,
insects shrill their alien tongues.
 
Around us the air explodes with sound.
The storm breaks over our heads
like soup bowls thrown at a wall and I
want to cower with the dogs under the bed.
 
Next morning with pipes drained, windows shuttered,
we leave in the first sprinkles of snow.
The mountain prepares itself for winter—
lake black in the coming cold, voices silent.

 
This poem first appeared in abovegroundtesting (2005).
Used here with permission.