Ralph Macioci

Buckeye Lake Photo Shoot

 

Ducks float on flaming pools of dazzling

sunlight.  Invisible feet paddle to shore 

where the mother preens coffee-colored feathers.  

 

A great blue heron glides overhead 

as if inventing sky.

 

A lone fisherman lugs his tackle to the tip

of a promontory that projects into the lake.

 

I polish the lens of my camera, point it 

at the belly of the heron as it drifts

in one smooth continuous motion 

to a different sky.

 

The ducks sit in the weeds, wooden decoys

undisturbed by the camera click.  

 

I aim the telephoto at the angler who casts

his line beyond the lake's froth.  In a brown 

Bora Bora Boony II hat, green Tamiami 

long sleeve shirt, and angler pants, jaws flexed,

he flings his line again, watches the long narrow

shadow it makes on the water sink below the surface.

He wets his lips, tastes solitude.

 

I lift my camera to the long-legged heron

that has reappeared, stands in marsh-like shallows,

with its sharp beak stabs a struggling fish.

 

I stop taking pictures to just linger, look

across the lake, touch everything with

appreciative eyes.  I believe in this special world

of water and light, in becoming best friends 

with peaceful loneliness.  

Traces of Fall

Light fills rifts between clouds with swatches 

of indigo.  Ribs of an oak release robins 

that reshape air with flight, wings reiterate

sun.  In the recess between seasons, I 

rediscover the yellow hue of each day,

the harbors where leaves twist down like orange

and scarlet sails.  Early shadows cool

the lawn and camouflage rowdy squirrels 

that cavort like rabid clowns.  I amble

around the yard, notice sunflowers

are on fire with twilight and dogwood

leaves are rusty-edged near death.  Subdued

by the last hours of daylight, I open

the door into the house, the late bees

of October still hum in my head.