Lake Days

When the sky is so quiet
and I have no looming thing
to do, I sit in the silence and wait
till the loon calls, slippery back
and white head popping up from
the annual lake, our annual lake,
twists its head left and right
and I've never been afraid of change,
but right now I don't mind
the placid ripple the loon's head sends echoing,
the magenta sunset reflections onto the water etched,
the indecisive leaves between summer and fall,
and I'll sit here, tossing little white pebbles
into the oasis and letting them decide,
letting them take their grand old time.
No due dates here, no hustle, no haste.
Just the splish-splash of stones,
the hush hush of the autumn breeze,
the hummm of the sunset and forest animals,
the oo-OOO-oo-ooo-oo of the loon, just before
it ducks its head below the surface
once more, leaving only a ripple in its wake.
I watch it go.
"Till next year."