15 August 2026

By Philip Kuepper

How like a row of judges the firs,
as they stood, impassively,
overlooking the lake,
as a lone rower made wake,
and youths swam in a roped-off
section of water near shore.
(A girl drowned there, years before,
a girl from my neighborhood,
when I was still only a boy.
Children, abandoned to fun,
aren’t always alert to danger.)
The rower’s wake rippled its way
into the roped off water
where swam the youths.
They swam through the ripples,
cutting them in two,
causing them swirl into
unique new abstracts.
The rower painted the water
with their brushstrokes,
with a theme come to them on the fly.
Would the firs pass judgment?
It did not appear so.
Not a branch moved;
though a crow did land on one,
not shy in issuing its opinion.
The lake, itself?
It took it all in its stride;
though the lake did enjoy how
the rower was scratching its back.

(15 July 2026)