It’s the far end of the lake that takes the dusk first,
carries slick, dark slices of tree shapes toward me
strip after strip, as if peeling off bark in thin layers.

Then waterfowl come, first the white ducks,
a few green Teals and Mergansers,
Wood Ducks with craze-painted faces,
each setting down heedful, trying the water
as if for the first time.

Talking in small, modest pinings
and yearnings that blend with the lisp
of the water, with whisper of perfect black trees
floating out in search of the moonrise,
and the waterfowl taking all of it in,
the sky and the water, both running
in the same pool.