Lake’s brown is mush and green algae,
The shadows a high point near the boats,
With men rowing time, a noon in clouds
Plain white stuff lolling in a blue sky.
Those algae lie peacefully with an ibis
Its one leg on a rock, its white double
In waters, doing penance for the day.
The boatman scoops up algae into boat
From a ripple breaking him in pieces.
A dappled lake is all we are looking for.
Smoke curls beyond shore are not our thing
Not a high point when the sun plays hooky.
Shore trees look inward, their eyes closed.