Watermark

From the new mountain highway, we have watched the narrow road below lapped up by the lake, water rising all the way to Hyde’s place: now the tips of Lombardys point above water like sable brushes.

I am ten, and wood slabs float into haphazard rafts at Cresent Cove; I am certain they rise from barn roofs collapsing upward:

Surely the road beneath still winds, strange, stringy plants waving upward in the current where wild roses pale toward green light.

Aspens quake for a season under the ripples. Persistent birds bubble songs to the surface, holding to branches washed of leaves.

Trout from streams of Wind River Range find the limits of the lake exotic— ground nests of larks hatch spectacular birds to climb the liquid sky.