At the Lake #1

A single goldfinch wrestles a crew of chickadee
In the arms of an underachieving tree,
And there beneath, the gaping end of a spillway
Hangs open and moist like a sliced udder.

When the water is down and along the manmade
Pier rocks, previously unseen, are now plain,
How easy it is to think they were there all along.


At the Lake #2

This small Iowa lake,
A rocky box of toxic algae bloom,
Appears to leave even
small birds unsatisfied,

And they recall instead
A far grander time
Spent along superior shores,

When, dancing on the surface
Of silver treasure,
The brightest flies leapt
Into their throats without a word.