Mist shrouds the lake
in thick, ghostly twists—
the reverie of morning
shattered only
by six.
We watch the
young gaggle
honk, glide, and twitch
toward the lake’s center—
their ebbing
launch strip.
Their calls build
like engine roar,
spilling from bills
into raw air.
And as if they were
a great metal liner—
a plane that will take
to the sky—
they pause just before
the brash ascent roar,
then burst into
orderly flight.
Over the splintered mirror,
they rise
into the clouds
and out
of our sight.
pm poetry 