To Ruin

It's late in a late-arriving 

Summer, and already the days

That only just barely warmed up

Are getting shorter, nights colder.



A nervousness, a chippiness

Flickers through pre-autumnal air.

Life's exploring twig-tips quiver

With strategic indecision.



Birds, bugs, plants, and bears are restless, 

Wavering between behaviors

Honed for August or September.

The lake is twisting in its bed.



Along its shores and surfaces,

Locals, tourists, boaters, fishers,

The odd lunatic still swimming,

Express their own anxieties,



Mostly to do with banks and homes, 

Jobs and family obligations,

Becoming territorial

Of the lake, when it's time they crave,



More summer, more light, more long days

Promising endless emptiness.

The clean and open lake feels small

As the summer shrinks around it.



One family fishing from the shore

Gesticulates at a fast boat

When it roars past their out-cast lines.

They cup their hands on cheeks and shout,

 

"Go out! Get out! Our lines are out!"

The water-skier jeers at them,

So they bellow louder, "You've got

The whole goddam lake to ruin!"