Lake Champlain

The painter's hand didn't miss a single stroke 
When he painted the lake today –
The impasto of green grass, the soaring swoops of blue sky,
All brilliant, well-saturated, and perfectly designed –
The mountains, threaded with fine sheaths of gauzy mist,
Glimmer across the mirror of gently lapping water.
The breeze, cool but bright, plays with the sun, strong and true.
The birds – gulls – usually loud and crude, form a musical backdrop of squawks and screams.
The children playing by the lake's edge giggle with built-up glee, backed up from all those long weeks of winter.
The ants go about their day unbothered and purposeful, each in their own little world.
The man with the radio sits back and closes his eyes.
The woman with the white dog laughs to whoever she's talking to on the phone.
I write my poem.
The painter steps back from his easel and sighs with contentment, his painting complete.
Hung in a golden frame in the gallery it will bedazzle and shine.
The painter has painted his masterpeice today –
For what is as beautiful a subject as a May afternoon?