Skaters

Disturbing oaks’ reflections,
the water striders swirl, spin, still
in the river’s quiet curl.
Fish food for trout,
they gather in teardrop
groups, tighten
then scatter frenzied
when I wade in.
The early summer sun penetrates
the surface, revealing
trapezoidal rocks that seem to lie
behind an amber stained-glass window.

The little river’s low—drought
this year, and last, and maybe
next year, too, the forecast
uncertain till the time arrives:
the great blue heron poised
above the slow pool before
he plunges for his pointed thrust.

Making soundless loops,
the skaters dimple artless water:
they’re on top and cannot see
the quick shadow
that glides beneath
the river’s lucent skin,
the gulf that lies
below.