Reservoir (Day) Poem by Lucius Furius

The golfers leave early -
September or October -
it's just you and the hickories,
the asters, the goldenrod -
and the reservoir -
the ripples shimmering eastward.

Steamshovels and bulldozers labored here one summer,
digging a hole for the water,
piling up the earth.

You walk on the bank they made,
seeing beyond the golf course -
the houses and barns,
the swampy gray-brown fields of goldenrod,
the railroad tracks,
the pines.

Your thoughts plunge to the reservoir's bottom
then turn
racing to the farthest field.