98poems/grebes

GREBES

Walking down the trail
I hear chimes in the breeze,
and then a dog’s futile bark,
and the lap of tires
against the street.

I am feeling very Thoreau,
despite my embarrassment
to do so.
Grateful for the day,
to sit upon the rock
and see the grebe’s neck,
flash white, then black
and white again,
as he turns his head
to hear the swallow’s tweet,
which he answers with
GREE BE.
GREE BE.

I cannot extrapolate
from nature –
not just yet.
I dare not.

I used to hate
quiet water,
but now take comfort
from the placid lake,
the occasional leap
of an eager bass,
the grebe’s excited dance,
not unlike my own
boisterous moments,
which I still have,
at least occasionally.

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