Yesterday night
I took my kayak for a ride.
The plan was to quietly die
while watching the rising moon.
I left pretty late.
The last sunbeams stumbled
upon the black of the lake
and fell apart
into a thousand bright
and broken lines of red copper.

I was soundless,
passing an ancient bronze of drift wood,
feeling the silk of weightless water,
I almost did not move.
But I pissed off a beaver.
Its angry tail flapping
was loud and clear.

I glided under the arching branches,
between the trees standing
knee-deep in the water.
Recent rains nourished the lake well.
Full-bodied fish glistened
near the hazel bottom.
Ducklings hid in the new reeds,
and a deer lost between shoals and sky
froze in the middle to feed
her two angular-ankly sons.

Before dark
the flashing showers started.
Fireflies. They made me forget
why I was there at first.
I was sitting open-mouthed
simply watching their synchronized firing.
My paddle was slowly falling out of hands.
Time had stopped.
Oh, and the moon was somewhere
there as well.