Blue haired, big bosomed old ladies
in their knee high hose
driving thirty in a fifty five
heading to church,
sleepy eyed fisherman in pickup
trucks heading for the public access,
a farmer with a giant round
hay bale stuffed into the back
of his truck heading to his cows
and one, solitary white swan
heading nowhere, surrounded
by white tendrils of fog rising
from the gray flat water
of the lake.
Black Eyed Susans, Cattails
and the five petal, white flowers
of the Wild Cucumber vine
populate the marsh along
the edge of the road.
The sky is split between
dark rain clouds and white
fluffy ones, the edge of
a weather system waiting, waiting.

A fish jumps, disturbing the placid
water and the swan takes no notice
as a rooster calls, demanding attention.
Maple leaves sway in a new breeze as
the sun rises a little higher
warming the air.
Campers near the lake shore
rustle and mumble in their
sleeping bags but do not rise,
waiting, waiting.

Morning dew on nameless weeds
sparkles and begins to dry
in the warming air as the
day rests on the edge of
a knife, whether to rain
or not, whether to blow
or not, whether to become
hot or not. Waiting, just waiting.

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