Cross Creek

I.

Noon

Watching lizards
and learning
how to
be invisible:
stand in shadow, keep quiet, stay still.

I’m sitting in the sun. Silent.
Trying to be still
so I don’t
alarm the lizards.
I'm practicing invisibility,
but boaters wave to me.


Sunrise

Under gray clouds
hidden birds
quietly
trill and chitter.
An unfelt breeze
lifts the Spanish moss, drops, releases
a tendril, gently,
drapes it onto the string of light bulbs.

My breakfast under a napkin on the chair arm.
Uneaten.
A book on my lap. Unread.

Many little brown live oak leaves fall,
fall together onto glassy water,
done with doing, gracing the moving
mirror or the sandy path.
Done.

Can I fall like that?
A peacock shouts, “No! No! No!” or is it,
“Now! Now!”

Beneath the roar of a passing plane,
behind the rush and rumble of cars
on the bridge,
between the wave of the dog-walker's
hand and the drop of her arm
lies stillness.

Waiting.
Ready to be felt
in the recesses, underneath, hidden, secret,
a sinking, a coming in.

II.

in noon sun
light bulbs hang on a cord
shining as if they’re on

above the far bank
silver maples have just sprouted
their tiny red leaves

roar of an outboard
old men churning up the creek
smell of gasoline

making a list
things to bring next time I’m here
binoculars, beer

black lizards turn green
more evidence that this world
is all a wild dream