Bewit

A will to bell the hawk,
The laughter of six teens
In woods above a beach

Caught in a tiny town.
They're taunting each other,
Four curved girls, two dour boys

Who look miserable
And pretend to not care
To want more to be off

Down the slope than to see
What the girls holler out
As wrong with their swimsuits.

"You don't look much better!"
Says one girl to the next.
Raucous, jeering laughter

Like a murder of crows
From the girls as they dodge
In and out of a shed

Used for changing into
And out of bikinis.
Four teens died last year here,

Dumped out of a canoe
They'd borrowed, the water
That day too cold to swim,

The lakeshore searched for days,
Finally the bottom
Scanned by remote-control

Robotic submarine.
There's a memorial
Of cross and flowers, on shore

But out of line of sight
From beach, swimming platform,
Or any swimmer not

Hardy enough to get
Out to the right angle.
Boaters see it, of course.

The boys have run downhill,
Grumbling. The girls scatter
As a startled covey,

Tugging at bikinis,
One after the other,
Out of the abandoned

Shed. They all knew the ones
Who drowned last spring. They all
Know something but not what.