Duckweed and watermeal,
blown against the pond's windward shore,
where seven mergansers gather to feast,
leaves a clear liquid mirror in its lee
where I kneel to look into my own eyes, reflected.
Not knowing if the orbs I see return my gaze
or if I'm invisible to them,
I drop a pebble to see if those mirrored eyes blink.
They stare back at me,
motionless as hovering turtles
below the surface of everything,
all of it rippling and confusing,
yet, somehow comforting in its transience
as I rise, walk away, disappear.
Larry Schug is retired after a life of various kinds of physical labor. He currently volunteers as a college writing tutor and as a naturalist. He is currently trying to evict a woodchuck from his garden, has begun serious thinking about his ninth book of poems and is trying to teach himself guitar to add ambiance to his spoken words.