Wiley Lake


Grey,
cool, as I sat on the small dock.
The wind slapped pockets of waves
and flip-flopped
lily pads like arching fish.
The dock further down
leaned forward
into wind that wrapped animal sounds
in thick felt.

My friends laughed down the hill behind me,
stumbling into my silence,
finding us locked eye to eye.

© 1980 John Goss