NOTTAWASAGA Poem by Ken Babstock

Sky a motif of cowslip in clear ice,

mayflies make moon-dials of the flagstones.

One hawk. Second hawk. They were up there

earlier, as sand toads tacked from grass tuft to grass

tuft, up the pressed dune's incline. Divots

under the pin oak.

Lake level's low. Unlike

This American Life's female executive producer's testosterone . . .

E. coli trucked in

on lettuce, bocce lessons, pine beetle.

The shooter games vibrate in Balm Beach

Arcade so we squint, the better to look the part

and later leak over The Guardian. Re-apply after bathing.

Contrail or cloud pattern? We're late arrivals, like winter.

One week, cedar fence to the waterline. Next,

a passion play of flip flops. Husqvarna. An arm splint.