Thirty-six degrees. After so many inches of rain, Goose Lake has risen and expanded by hundreds of feet all around. We have never seen it this full, or as heavily populated by ducks. The road that leads deeper into the park is submerged far and wide beneath swiftly moving water, part of the river having returned to its old channel — the area by the old black cottonwood that has been more lake than river since the great flood of 1861. Gloved fingers and bare toes, the toes comfortable, the fingers still cold, making one wonder if gloves should have been worn at all. Deer tracks. In a large grassy area lit by the early morning sun, a red-tailed hawk, not eating, but seemingly curious about something. Aware of, and suitably unimpressed by, our presence. The ferry closed due to high water. Talk of snow.
December 21, 2021
Straight on, through the center of the picture, runs the road.
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Categories: New Poems & Pieces