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.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem