In The Brown Webs Of The Pond Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Soft in the brown webs of the pond,
Leaking from the roots of the cemeteries,
Airplanes who get up and yawn—
Like lions in their estuaries—
And the roots of the tinfoil gods crinkle with
A sunlight amidst the palms,
All of the youngish boys pretending at trying
Not to be in love with them—
Soft-shelled tortoises nibbling at the ankles,
As an ancient mother holds her new born
Up to the messages of the skies.