The lake still, most fishermen gone.
Small boats, one to each cabin sit dry-docked.
The water moccasin, so threatening
in summer, twines away
to brimming waters.

Out on the country road black walnuts
drop and split, the deep seam, an elk’s eye.

The harvest moon, resplendent, anticipates
meandering spirits. Above the dull roar of traffic
on the interstate,
shattering cricket screech,
wing edges rubbed raw, fiddlers out of tune.

I slip into a stupor, step onto the empty porch,
enjoy the creaking wooden door, clapper tunes
as it gently closes.

Beyond the dark beach, metal halide lamps
from a single fishing fleet
burst vapor over blue.