The Bay

It's not the same, it's never
The same. Weather works on it,
The rising and falling lake,
Changeful as any river,
Albeit more deceptive,
More prone to look like itself,
Constantly redefines it.

Each passing life stakes a claim,
From the territorial
Spiders under logs and rocks
To trees advancing root by root,
To fish spawning in shallows.
Dogs and bears bring their feces,
Humans bring their fires and trash.

The foolish professor brought
His love, his bones, his crutches,
His free time, his flask of scotch,
His weird need to go swimming
In stunningly cold water,
His pasts, and once, in winter,
His only child's placenta.

He teetered over the ice
To where fog rolled from the waves,
Setting the small ship of blood
Adrift on the dark water
Until it slipped out of sight.
That was here. That was not here,
Where May sun shines. Near. Not here.