paul weinman
downed
A dark-feathered grebe floats low
in the water watching my cautious
movement along the shore.
I look down as my foot steps
brittle into beach leaves
brown and she has dived down.
I wait but cannot see
where she reappears
- the trees rim the lake
and there is no picking
her neck from the gray.
Waking a slight path someone
has made from the road
I remember myself sitting
in the corner of our being
together. When I wouldn't
talk or try to find.
The pine needles are wet
and soft under feet.
They lead to rocks slapped
with waves of early winter.
I look in water at a dark
face - a jagged reflection
and I know I have dived down, too.
