A Lake Poem by Hans Ostrom

A lake's a lovely dot
that should have ought

to have been if it weren't.
Lakeside, see the burnt

place inside stones:
campfire. The many zones

of any sort of lake
amaze: here fish wake,

there sleep. Shelves, shallows,
a glass surface where swallows,

evenings, select sweet bugs
to eat. Cool shade for slugs.

Shadows, where the muck
rules. A cove where a duck

feels safe and mutters.
Trees behave like shutters,

filtering light, allowing moss.
Humans can't help but toss

junk into lakes. I don't know why.
In the lake, see the sky.

Sit by the lake. My Lord, the sounds.
Even in small lakes life abounds,

from single-cell and bug to frog
to worms beneath a sunken log.

Fish jump, cruise, dive, and school.
Patient lakeside raccoons drool.

Kingfisher and eagle do espy,
and hawk with an awful eye

perceives a chipmunk by the lake.
(Back up that tree, for heaven's sake.

Made of snow or stream or spring,
a lovely, yes, a functional thing:

a blue acceptance, is a lake.